IDUNA 

AND 

(j)THER  STORIES 

BY 
-GEORGE  -A-  HIBBARD- 


IDUNA 


AND    OTHER    STORIES 


BY 


GEORGE  A.  HIBBARD 


NEW-  YORK 

HARPER  &    BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN   SQUARE 
1891 


Copyright,  1891,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


3515 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

IDUNA I 

THE  WOMAN    IN  THE  CASE 63 

PAPOOSE IOI 

"WOULD   DICK   DO  THAT?" 169 

"THE  DRAGONESS" 215 

IN   MAIDEN  MEDITATION 267 


1703619 


IDUNA 


IDUNA 


I  HAD  just  passed  through  that  first  really 
passionate  part  of  a  man's  life  which  gen 
erally  comes  somewhere  in  his  third  decade, 
and  had  entered  upon  the  brief  period  which 
invariably  follows,  when,  in  our  comparative 
inexperience,  we  think  that  we  have  so  felt 
all  that  the  world  gives  of  enjoyment  or  sor 
row  that,  if  not  incapable  of  new  or  strong 
emotion,  we  are  at  least  quite  beyond  the 
possibility  of  surprise.  I  was  more  than 
startled,  however,  when,  in  the  first  compla 
cency  of  this  latter  time,  I  received  a  request 
which  I  could  not,  and  which  indeed  I  had 
no  desire  to  disregard.  In  his  will  my  father 
had  enjoined  upon  me  that  whenever  and 
whithersoever  a  lifelong  friend  should  sum 
mon  me,  I  should  immediately  and  literally 
obey  the  call.  I  was  then  to  learn  some 
thing  of  great  importance  to  myself.  As 
may  well  be  imagined,  I  had  at  one  time  and 


4  IDUNA 

another  thought  much  of  the  probable  nat 
ure  of  the  communication  thus  to  be  made ; 
but  as  the  years  passed  and  the  summons 
did  not  come,  I  had  gradually  ceased  to 
think  of  the  matter.  But  now  I  had  received 
it,  and  without  an  hour's  delay  I  started  in 
obedience  to  it. 

Mr.  Dacre — I  will  so  call  him,  for  if  it  so 
happens  that  you  have  never  heard  of  him  it 
will  be  as  well  as  if  I  used  his  real  name,  and 
if,  as  is  more  than  probable,  you  have  known 
him  by  reputation,  I  can  thus  present  him  to 
you  without  encountering  the  impediment 
of  a  preconception  or  any  possible  prejudice 
arising  from  association — Mr.  Dacre,  my  fa 
ther's  friend,  was  hardly  known  to  me.  I 
did  not  remember  that  I  had  seen  him  even 
when  a  child,  and  I  had  only  heard  of  him  in 
later  years,  in  the  vague,  fitful  way  in  which 
travellers  hear  so  much  from  home.  I  knew 
that  he  had  once  been  very  prominent  polit 
ically,  and  that  he  had  held  high  office.  I 
had  always  understood  that  he  was  a  man 
of  great  wealth,  and  lately  I  had  heard  him 
described  as  a  man  of  strange  character — a 
misanthrope,  a  pagan.  At  the  most  success 
ful  moment  of  his  career  he  had  been  stricken 


IDUNA  5 

down  by  the  death  of  his  young  wife.  He 
had  never  fully  recovered  from  the  blow. 
Renouncing  power  and  ambition,  he  had 
withdrawn  wholly  from  the  world,  of  which 
he  had  been  so  important  a  part,  and  had 
retired  to  a  great  estate  in  a  secluded  and 
beautiful  part  of  a  country  distant  from  the 
scene  of  his  former  life.  There  he  lived  in 

splendid  solitude. 

*  *  * 

It  was  near  sunset  when  I  arrived,  after  a 
long  journey,  at  my  destination.  Looking 
about  me  in  some  perplexity  as  to  what  was 
to  become  of  me,  I  saw  a  servant  in  quiet 
livery,  who  immediately  approached  me  and 
informed  me  that  the  carriage  was  waiting.  I 
entered  it  at  once  and  was  driven  rapidly  away. 
I  had  not  gone  far  when  I  felt  a  cool  breeze, 
and  soon  I  caught  glimpses  of  the  sea,  which 
in  the  low  light  of  the  hour  seemed,  in  the 
distance,  but  a  dull,  slaty  expanse.  It  was  a 
beautiful  evening,  and  as  the  carriage  rolled 
along  the  smooth,  hard  road  I  fell  into  a  rev- 
ery,  in  which  memories  and  expectations 
strangely  mingled.  I  felt  that  my  life  had 
indeed  held  its  way  only  over  the  barrens  of 
existence,  when  such  a  scene  of  peaceful 


6  IDUNA 

beauty  brought  to  me  no  blossom  or  blade 
of  tender  memory ;  I  wondered  if  aught 
awaited  me  in  these  new  surroundings  that 
could  give  me  the  full,  healthy  interest  I  so 
lately  had  known.  I  wondered  in  a  vague, 
listless  fashion  if  it  might  be  so.  That  was 
all.  I  could  not  believe  such  a  thing  proba 
ble  or  possible. 

The  lights  shone  in  the  windows  of  a  cot 
tage  by  the' roadside  as  I  passed,  and  when  I 
reached  the  stately  pile  which  was  Mr.  Dacre's 
home,  it  was  too  dark  to  distinguish  anything 
in  detail.  I  could  only  see  the  heavy  mass  of 
a  huge  building  against  a  dusky  sky.  Evi 
dently  I  was  not  taken  to  the  great  entrance, 
but  to  a  private  doorway.  A  curiously  shaped 
sconce,  which  seemed  almost  heavy  with  a 
crushed-down  throng  of  lights  striving  towards 
uprising,  gave  forth  a  subdued  glow  in  the  hall 
through  which  I  was  conducted  by  a  servant 
who,  it  was  plain,  had  awaited  my  arrival ;  but 
even  by  this  slight  illumination  I  saw  some 
thing  of  the  internal  splendor  of  the  house. 
The  man  led  me  up  a  flight  of  stairs,  and, 
after  conducting  me  through  a  long  corridor, 
ushered  me  into  a  suite  of  spacious  rooms 
looking  on  the  sea.  He  informed  me  that 


IDUNA  7 

dinner  would  be  served  in  an  hour,  but  that 
Mr.  Dacre  desired  to  see  me  in  the  library  as 
soon  as  I  should  be  ready. 

I  dressed  hastily,  for  I  was  very  eager  to 
meet  my  host — very  anxious  to  learn  as  soon 
as  possible  what  I  could  not  doubt  was  very 
important  to  myself. 

I  passed  down  the  main  stairway  into  the 
central  hall,  and  was  shown  the  way  to  the 
library.  The  serried  volumes,  almost  mur 
murous  with  accumulated  meaning,  thronged 
along  the  high  walls.  As  I  entered,  the  only 
occupant  of  the  immense  room  came  forward 
to  meet  me.  I  knew  at  once  that  this  was 
Mr.  Dacre.  I  had  seen  many  a  man  who 
might  well  awaken  reverence  or  awe,  many 
who  held  by  inheritance  or  who  had  won 
proud  position  or  wide  authority,  many  sur 
rounded  by  the  aureola  of  rank  or  crowned 
by  the  nimbus  of  fame,  but  I  had  never  seen 
any  more  striking  personage  than  my  father's 
friend.  I  had  never  seen  any  man  of  such 
personal  significance,  of  such  grand  physical 
aspect,  of  such  apparent  power  and  knowl 
edge  blended  in  such  harmonious  air,  and  all 
borne  with  the  habitual  grace  of  one  long  ac 
customed  to  life's  best  associations. 


8  IDUNA 

"  You  are  my  friend's  son,"  he  said  in 
strong,  resonant  voice,  adding,  as  he  grasped 
my  hand  with  the  assuring  warmth  of  wel 
come,  "  You  have  lost  no  time  in  coming.  I 
like  that." 

I  told  him  I  could  but  obey  my  father's 
command  so  solemnly  expressed. 

"  Many  might  have  found  cause  for  de 
lay,"  he  said,  half  to  himself. 

The  announcement  of  dinner  interrupted 
our  conversation,  but  Mr.  Dacre  lingered  as 
if  expecting  some  one. 

"  My  daughter  Alda  is  late,"  he  said.  "  She 
is  with  her  sister." 

I  heard  this  announcement  with  great  sur 
prise,  for  I  did  not  know  that  Mr.  Dacre  had 
any  children.  In  a  moment  the  door  was 
opened,  and  a  young  girl  entered.  Light  and 
frail  was  the  form  that  met  my  sight — so 
slight,  so  fine,  that  it  seemed,  in  her,  human 
clay  had  found  a  hitherto  unknown  purity. 
As  light  through  delicate  porcelain,  so  some 
unearthly  radiance  shone  through  the  diaph 
anous  face.  She  moved  as  if  imponderable, 
and  as  she  came  towards  us  I  saw  in  her 
cheek  the  fair,  false  glow  that  tells  so  surely 
of  approaching  death. 


IDUNA  9 

At  dinner  we  talked  only  of  indifferent 
things.  I  never  would  have  imagined  that 
Mr.  Dacre's  life  was  one  of  isolation  and  mo 
notony.  He  might  still  have  been  the  active 
director  of  great  affairs.  Every  subject  upon 
which  we  touched,  even  such  as  had  only  re 
cently  caught  the  attention  of  the  world, 
seemed  entirely  familiar  to  him. 

Alda  spoke  little,  but  in  all  she  said  she 
showed  wide  knowledge  and  infinite  refine 
ment.  After  she  had  mentioned  her  sister, 
whose  name  I  now  first  heard  was  Iduna,  I 
became  more  than  curious  to  know  why  she 
too  did  not  dine  with  us,  but  was  held  from 
inquiry  by  some  inexplicable  feeling.  There 
was  no  need,  however,  for  inquiry,  as  Alda 
almost  immediately  said : 

"  My  sister  is  very  young,  and  has  seen 
hardly  any  one.  She  has  lived  so  quiet  a 
life  that  any  change  might  excite  her  too 
much." 

Instead  of  producing  the  calming  effect  of 
an  explanation,  what  she  said  only  excited 
my  interest  the  more.  I  was  not  satisfied.  I 
could  not  understand  why  I  felt  as  I  did,  but 
I  was  sure  something  was  held  from  me,  that 
some  mystery  was  here. 


io  IDUNA 

Dinner  came  to  an  end,  and  Alda  rose  and 
left  me  alone  with  Mr.  Dacre. 

Though  my  life  had  been  such  as"  to  give 
me  a  certain  amount  of  self-confidence,  and 
though  contact  with  the  world  had  long  ago 
brushed  away  the  delicate  bloom  of  youthful 
shyness,  I  felt  an  unaccountable  restraint  in 
his  presence. 

"  It  was  hardly  light  enough  when  I  came," 
I  said,  at  last  freeing  myself  from  the  mo 
mentary  constraint,  "  to  see  the  beauty  of 
your  place." 

"You  will  like  it,"  he  said,  and  he  spoke 
with  an  overmastering  sadness  that  now,  since 
I  had  seen  Alda,  I  thought  I  could  under 
stand,  but  which  I  was  yet  to  learn  I  had  lit 
tle  fathomed.  "  It  is  a  fine  place,  and  I  would 
be  glad  if  people  of  my  race  had  always  lived 
in  it.  If  it  takes  three  generations  to  make 
a  gentleman,  it  takes  certainly  as  many  to 
make  a  home." 

"  It  has  not  always  been  yours?" 

"  No.  It  came  to  me  as  you  see  it,  rich  in 
so  much  that  arises  from  the  picturesquely 
blent  life  of  other  days." 

"The  present,"  I  said,  hardly  understand 
ing  exactly  what  I  meant, <r  often  has  unworn 


IDUNA.  ji 

attractions  for  me,  sometimes  more  subtle  and 
even  more  striking  than  those  of  the  past." 

"  It  is  true,"  he  answered  quickly.  '  Our 
time  has  its  own  charm.  The  humblest  life 
has  a  meaning  that  formerly  could  hardly 
have  belonged  to  the  highest.  When  our 
knowledge  is  so  great,  when  our  interests 
are  so  complex,  when  our  relations  are  so 
broad,  when  all  the  world  is  our  home  and 
every  man  our  neighbor,  who  would  wish  for 
the  narrow  circumstances  of  an  earlier  age  ?" 

He  had  forgotten  himself,  and  the  sentences 
came  with  a  vigor  I  had  not  expected. 

He  continued  for  some  time  to  talk  with 
the  same  animation  and  directness.  I  hoped 
that  he  might  make  some  allusion  to  the 
cause  of  my  summons,  but  he  did  not.  Before 
I  was  aware  of  it  I  found  that,  without  ques 
tioning  me,  he  had  led  me  to  speak  of  my 
life,  to  disclose  almost  my  inner  self.  Startled 
into  sudden  consciousness,  I  felt  very  much 
as  might  an  intelligent  animalcule  aware  that 
he  was  in  the  focus  of  a  solar  microscope.  I 
knew  that  my  moral  and  mental  fabric  was  as 
evident  to  him  as  might  be  the  structure  of 
the  creature  beneath  the  lenses,  and  I  felt 
myself  powerless  to  escape.  Why  he  wished 


12  IDUNA 

so  closely  to  learn  the  strength,  the  weakness, 
the  very  texture  of  my  character — all,  in 
short,  that  I  was — I  did  not  discover. 

"  You  have,"  he  said  finally,  "  led  the  life 
of  many  rich  and  fairly  educated  young  men 
of  the  day — not  doing  anything  particularly 
foolish  or  singularly  wise.  However,  it  is 
more  important  not  to  do  foolish  things  in 
this  world  than  to  do  wise  ones." 

I  replied  that  although  I  had  no  particular 
ambition,  still  I  did  not  despair  of  leading  a 
life  which  would  prove  satisfactory  to  myself, 
even  if  it  might  not  be  one  which  would  be 
generally  called  successful. 

"  The  truly  successful  man,"  he  replied, 
"  as  has  already  been  said  of  the  greatest 
rogue,  is  never  found  out.  Success  is  a  bit 
terness,  something  depending  on  the  power 
to  use  men  and  amuse  women.  Success,"  he 
spoke  with  a  strange  intensity,  "success  —  a 
moment  of  satiety  after  years  of  want ;  for 
success  is  always  intrenched  behind  a  failure, 
won  through  and  beyond  the  fosse  of  defeat. 
Success,"  he  continued  bitterly,  "when  a  man 
must  so  often  be  a  charlatan  to  succeed  in  the 
world,  a  fool  to  enjoy  it,  and  yet — strange  para 
dox — a  hypocrite  to  seem  satisfied  to  leave  it." 


IDUNA  13 

We  sat  at  the  table  a  short  time,  and  then 
went  out  on  the  terrace,  from  which  we  could 
look  on  the  sea,  now  lit  by  the  rising  moon. 
Mr.  Dacre  told  me  that  Alda  could  not  bear 
the  night  air,  and  added  that  she  always  spent 
the  evening  with  her  sister.  But  little  more 
was  said,  as  he  soon  left  me,  telling  me  that 
he  should  not  see  me  at  breakfast,  but  that 
he  hoped  to  meet  me  in  the  library  at  eleven 
o'clock  in  the  morning. 

As  I  sat  smoking  late  into  the  night,  I  pon 
dered  deeply  on  what  I  had  heard  and  seen, 
seeking  a  solution  of  the  multiplying  ques 
tions  which  arose.  I  thought  of  the  prob 
able  nature  of  the  communication  which  I 
could  not  doubt  was  to  be  made  to  me  in  the 
morning ;  but  gradually — perhaps  because  I 
had  long  ago  exhausted  all  power  of  con 
jecture  in  that  direction — my  thoughts  wan 
dered.  Why  had  I  not  seen  Iduna?  What 
could  be  the  reason  for  her  seclusion?  I 
hoped  that  the  morrow  might  bring  also  an 

answer  to  these  questions. 

•x-  *  * 

I  arose  early,  after  a  night  of  fitful  sleep, 
and,  breakfasting  alone,  I  spent  the  time  be 
fore  the  appointed  hour  in  exploring  some 


14  IDUNA 

part  of  the  extensive  grounds.  The  place 
was  more  splendid  even  than  I  had  thought 
it. 

It  was  exactly  eleven  when  I  entered  the 
library  and  found  Mr.  Dacre  seated  where  I 
had  first  seen  him.  He  seemed  wearied,  or  he 
was  really  more  worn  and  older  than  I  had 
thought  him.  He  did  not  rise,  but,  glancing 
at  me,  pointed  to  a  chair  near  his  own. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  began,  "  that  you  have  no 
idea  why  I  have  sent  for  you  ?" 
I  said  that  I  had  not. 

"  You  have  never  thought  of  marriage  ?" 
he  asked  abruptly. 

I  replied,  in  great  amazement,  that  I  never 
had  in  any  personal  sense. 

"  Your  father  and  I,"  he  continued,  with 
the  same  directness  and  gazing  steadfastly  at 
me,  "  as  you  well  know,  were  dear  friends — 
friends  in  that  rare,  long  friendship  which  no 
doubt  dare  ever  assail — a  friendship  stronger 
than  life.  When  my  daughter  Iduna  was 
born,  ten  years  after  yourself,  your  father  and 
I  agreed — we  but  ratified  an  agreement  our 
life-long  friendship  seemed  to  have  made  for 
us — that  you  should  marry." 

I  was  utterly  astounded.     Although  my 


IDUNA  15 

conjectures  had  taken,  as  I  supposed,  all  pos 
sible  and  impossible  directions,  I  had  never 
thought  of  anything  of  the  nature  of  this 
announcement.  I  did  not,  or  rather  I  could 
not,  reply. 

"  It  was  the  wish  of  your  father's  latter 
life — of  his  death-bed.  I  sat  by  that  death 
bed  ;  I  saw  the  gathering  darkness  of  the 
great  calamity  close  around  him."  He  was 
for  the  moment  too  much  moved  for  further 
speech,  but  he  soon  controlled  himself  and 
went  on.  "  I  had  before  seen  those  I  loved 
pass  away,  and  from  my  earliest  years  I  had 
been  awed  by  the  consciousness  of  death's 
fearful  presence,  but  not  till  then  did  I  fully 
learn  life's  lesson." 

I  did  not  understand  him,  but  I  did  not 
even  think  of  asking  what  he  meant. 

"  His  wish  has  long  been  mine,  and  now, 
when  we  first  meet  in  your  maturer  years,  I 
find  it  stronger  than  ever  before." 

He  paused  for  a  moment. 

"  In  the  meantime  you  were  to  know  noth 
ing  of  this,  you  were  to  be  free ;  for  I  would 
have  no  inexperienced,  domesticated,  home- 
taught  being,  led  only  by  the  lines  of  our 
compact.  I  wanted  a  man,  vivid,  schooled 


i6  IDUNA 

by  events,  strong  in  complete  manhood,  to 
win  my  child,  appreciating  how  much  he 
won." 

I  was  so  busied  with  my  crowding  thoughts 
that  I  still  sat  silent. 

"  And  now,"  he  continued,  somewhat  hesi 
tatingly,  "  I  have  to  disclose  something — 
something  which  may  make  all  impossible — 
something  which  places  my  child  apart  from 
all  the  world — something  which  makes  her 
higher  than  any  living  being — something  so 
strange,  so  exceptional,  that  you  will  not  at 
first  fully  realize  the  meaning  of  what  I  say." 

I  looked  at  him  in  wonder. 

"  What  I  am  about  to  reveal  to  you,"  he 
went  on,  "  has  arisen  from  the  conditions  of 
my  own  life.  I  have  never  known  that  full, 
whole  happiness  which  some  contend  is  pos 
sible.  I  have  never  even  known  the  light 
heedlessness  which  passes  with  the  world  for 
happiness.  I  have  never  been  happy  either 
in  the  true  or  the  accepted  meaning  of  the 
word.  One  by  one  I  have  seen  those  die  to 
whom  my  heart  was  bound  by  every  ligament 
of  love.  From  my  young  years  the  world 
has  seemed  to  me  but  an  endless  vault  where 
the  footsteps  brought  no  progress,  the  voice 


IDUNA  17 

awoke  no  echo;  where  the  eye  dwelt  on  no 
color,  and  the  ear  listened  to  tidings  from  no 
real  land ;  through  which  life  struggled  to  its 
end,  borne  down  with  its  one  whole  truth — 
the  dread  truth  that  all  is  nothing.  Why 
are  the  words  of  the  wise  man  all  that  there 
is  of  wisdom — '  all  is  vanity'?  At  the  time 
when  men  should  be  exultant  in  their  life, 
their  strength,  my  friend,  my  true  friend,  was 
hurried  from  me."  He  hesitated,  but  almost 
immediately  continued.  "  What  I  then 
thought  a  culmination  was,  after  all,  only  a 
degree  of  grief.  I  loved  her  mother,"  the 
strong  voice  shook.  "  I  was  doomed  to  watch 
her  slowly  failing  strength,  to  see  the  begin 
ning,  the  progress  of  that  insidious  disease 
by  which  death  most  stealthily  approaches 
its  victims.  The  children  lived — Alda,  who  I 
feared  might  soon  follow  her  mother  ;  Iduna, 
younger,  and  strong  with  the  principle  of 
life.  I  had  suffered,  and  I  wished  to  spare 
them.  Could  I  not,  throughout  this  life, 
cheat  Death  himself — Death,  the  true  source 
of  all  our  woe,  the  destroyer  of  every  hope  ? 
All  life  must  end,  and  the  bitter  knowledge 
taints  its  every  moment.  Faiths  to  me — re 
member,  I  speak  only  of  myself — seem  but 
2 


iS  IDUNA 

the  inventions  of  men,  subterfuges,  evasions 
of  the  truth  that  there  is  nothing  beyond  the 
grave — evasions  that  promise  much,  but  allay 
nothing.  I  would  give  all  I  possess  for  the 
faith  of  the  humblest,  the  faith  that  beyond 
this  life  we  may  be  what  this  magnificent 
human  nature,  freed  from  hindering  passion, 
stripped  of  encumbering  flesh,  immeasurable 
in  all  it  is,  should  be — I  would  give  all  for 
the  sweet,  the  abiding,  the  all-sustaining  faith 
of  the  humblest  who  believes.  I  was  deter 
mined  that  Iduna — for  Alda  already  knew 
the  truth  —  should  live  a  life  happier  than 
any  ever  before  led  by  human  being.  She 
should  know  nothing  of  the  taint,  the  terror 
of  existence.  She  does  not.  She  does 
not  know  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
death." 

He  fell  back  in  his  chair  exhausted. 

"  Through  her  whole  life,"  he  soon  con 
tinued  more  calmly,  "  Iduna  has  been  guard 
ed,  kept  from  the  terrible  knowledge.  She 
was  too  young  to  know  of  her  mother's 
death.  Alda  believed  that  she  had  inherited 
the  fatal  disease,  but  has  always  kept  such 
knowledge  from  her  sister.  Only  thus  could 
Iduna  have  led  the  happy  life  she  has.  In 


ID  UNA  19 

almost  entire  renunciation  of  individual  exist 
ence,  Alda  has  lived  for  her  sister — has  given 
her  life,  that  must  at  best  be  short,  to  make 
her  sister  happy.  And  Iduna  has  lived  as  no 
one  has  ever  lived  before — happier  than  any 
human  being — for,  of  all  animate  things, 
boasted,  boastful  man  is  the  poorest.  Look 
at  the  lowlier  dwellers  on  the  earth — the  deni 
zens  of  the  air  and  of  the  sea.  Through  their 
lives  they  seem  filled  with  the  gladness  of  im 
mortality.  The  meanest  thing  that  crawls 
basks  in  the  sunlight  of  its  existence,  un- 
chilled  by  the  thought  of  death. 

"  But,"  he  continued,  "  the  time  has  now 
come  for  her  to  learn  the  truth — for  learn  it 
some  day,  sooner  or  later,  she  must.  Alda 
will  follow  her  mother — not  soon,  I  think,  for 
I  have  done  what  I  could  —  and  then  Iduna 
must  know.  I  have  sent  for  you  in  fulfilment 
of  my  agreement  with  your  father.  My  hope, 
my  whole  hope,  is  now  in  you.  Win  her,  and 
under  the  dominion  of  strong  and  revealing 
love  she  can  best  hear  the  truth." 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  I—" 

"  You  will  find  her  young  and  fair,"  he  in 
terrupted.  "  Win  her,  and  you  will  be  the 
happiest  among  men." 


20  IDUNA 

"  But,"  I  continued,  "  I  have  not  the  vanity 
to  think  I  might  succeed." 

"  She  is  hardly  more  than  a  child.  She  has 
seen  no  one,  and  if  she  had,  you  are  not  one 
to  fail  in  finding  favor  in  a  young  girl's  eyes." 

He  placed  his  hand  on  my  shoulder  as  he 
spoke,  with  the  greatest  kindliness  he  had 
yet  shown  me,  and,  seeming  to  loose  the  ten 
sion  in  which  he  had  held  himself,  he  almost 
smiled. 

"You  shall  see  Iduna  at  luncheon,"  he 
continued.  "  But  remember,  what  you  under 
take  will  not  be  easy.  You  must  not  let  fall 
a  word  which  could  awaken  even  an  inquiry 
as  to  what  she  does  not  know." 

Mr.  Dacre  arose  and  silently  left  me. 

I  did  not  stir.  The  wonderful,  and  even 
the  strange,  had  always  held  a  charm  for  me. 
It  seemed  that  through  them  I  could  often 
best  catch  glimpses  of  that  underlying  princi 
ple,  that  intellectual  picturesqueness,  that  es 
sential  of  clear,  high  pleasure,  which  we,  half 
sneeringly,  call  romance — that  romance  which, 
often  hidden,  lies  in  the  life  of  every  one,  and 
which,  once  discovered,  explains  much  and 
glorifies  all.  Already,  and  with  strange, 
forerunning  feeling,  I  was  half  in  love  with 


IDUNA  21 

this  young  girl,  so  singularly  blessed  —  or 
cursed. 

I  was  so  busy  with  my  thoughts  that  the 
time  passed  quickly,  and  the  hour  for  my 
presentation  to  Iduna  came  before  I  real 
ized  it. 

Mr.  Dacre  met  me,  and  led  me  through  a 
long  gallery,  where,  in  the  pictures  on  the 
wall,  I  recognized  the  color  or  the  manner  of 
many  a  great  painter,  to  a  part  of  the  house 
where  I  had  not  yet  been.  He  paused  before 
a  heavily  curtained  door,  and  said  to  me  in  a 
low  tone : 

"  Be  on  your  guard." 

The  room  into  which  he  led  me  was  singu 
larly  different  from  the  others  I  had  seen.  I 
felt  as  if  I  had  passed  out  of  some  dark  cav 
ern  into  the  clear  noontide.  Here  all  was 
graceful,  fanciful,  bright.  The  broad  day  fell 
on  light  tones  and  delicate  textures.  Flowers 
were  everywhere,  and  through  the  large,  low 
windows  I  could  see  what  I  can  best  call  a 
garden — a  garden  in  the  meaning  of  the  word 
in  the  time  of  Cowley  and  Evelyn  —  with 
carefully  kept  walks  and  trim  beds,  gay  with 
the  blooms  of  midsummer. 

Alda  was   seated  at  a  piano,  on  which,  I 


22  IDUNA 

noticed,  lay  a  violin,  but  she  rose  as  we  en 
tered.  I  gazed  upon  her  delicate  face,  where 
still  deepened  the  expression  of  calm  resigna 
tion,  with  a  new  interest,  now  that  I  had  been 
told  about  her  life. 

"  Iduna  will  be  here  in  a  moment,"  she 
said. 

Almost  as  she  spoke  a  portiere  was  lifted, 
and  a  young  girl  entered  the  room. 

She  was  not  only  the  most  beautiful  crea 
ture  I  had  ever  seen,  she  seemed  a  being  such 
as  vagrant  fancy  or  imagination's  self  may 
only  show  for  a  moment  —  a  realization  of 
the  vision  of  some  rapt,  rare  hour,  lovelier 
than  I  might  ever  hope  to  see  in  life.  I 
would  not  attempt  to  describe  her  had  I 
never  seen  her  again,  for  I  was  more  than 
dazzled.  Even  now  I  can  say  little  more 
than  that  her  hair  was  dark,  and  that  she  had 
dark  eyes — eyes  that  looked  steadily  at  you, 
trusting,  unhesitating,  questioning,  as  the 
grave  eyes  of  children,  appealing  to  you  for 
revelation  of  strange  things,  wonderful,  but 
by  no  possibility  untrue.  She  seemed  the 
embodiment  of  youth  ;  of  air  from  out  some 
fresh  break  in  the  sky ;  of  sunlight,  the  only 
thing  in  all  this  material  world  ever  unques- 


IDUNA  23 

tionably  new  ;  of  all  that  is  healthful  and 
joyous  in  nature. 

"  Good-morning,  papa  ;  you  are  late,"  she 
said.  "  I  thought  you  were  not  coming." 

I  can  hear  her  voice  now,  so  clear  and  yet 
so  full  of  meaning — vibrant,  it  almost  seemed, 
with  harmonies  of  far  association. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Mr.  Dacre,  "  but  I  have 
brought  one  who  will  help  me  bear  any  re 
proach." 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  have  come,"  she  said, 
looking  at  me  gravely.  "  Papa,  I  fear  some 
times,  is  very  lonely." 

I  had  been  greatly  perplexed  when  I 
thought  what  might  be  the  difficulty  of  avoid 
ing  allusion  to  all  that  I  had  been  told  to 
avoid.  But  now,  when  I  was  in  her  presence, 
I  felt  at  once  that  this  would  be  more  than 
easy.  Had  I  not  been  told  all  that  I  had,  I 
would  not  have  thought  that  her  life  had 
been  in  any  way  unusual ;  she  appeared  so 
perfectly  natural,  and  so  like  any  other  very 
intelligent  and  well-brought-up  young  girl. 

"  He  hardly  need  be  so,"  I  said,  thought 
lessly,  in  my  new  confidence.  "  One  might 
be  utterly  happy  here  without  seeing  a 
soul." 


24  IDUNA 

She  looked  up  at  me  quickly  in  a  startled 
way. 

"  A  soul,"  she  said,  and  then,  pausing  a 
moment,  added,  "  I  wonder  what  you  mean." 

"  Anybody,"  I  replied,  confusedly,  as  Alda 
glanced  at  me  warningly. 

"A  soul,"  she  repeated,  musingly.  "It 
must  be  some  new  word." 

"  We  will  go  to  luncheon,"  said  Mr.  Dacre, 
almost  sternly. 

I  saw  Iduna  look  at  him  in  surprise,  as  if 
such  tone  were  new  to  her,  and  then  follow 
Alda  into  the  next  room. 

"  I  have  not  seen  this  part  of  the  grounds," 
I  said,  looking  out  of  the  window. 

"  It  is  my  own  garden.  Not  even  Alda 
touches  a  leaf  in  it.  There  I  gather  my  own 
roses,"  she  said,  "  and  am  wounded  by  my 
own  thorns." 

"  It  must  give  you  a  charming  occupa 
tion,"  I  replied,  resolved  to  be  as  safely  com 
monplace  as  possible ;  and  then,  remembering 
the  piano  and  violin  I  had  seen,  I  added, 
"  But  you  have  others ;  you  are  fond  of 
music?" 

"Above  all  else,"  she  answered  enthusias 
tically;  "  but  I  like  my  violin  better  than  my 


IDUNA  25 

piano  —  it  is  a  very  wonderful  one.  I  will 
show  it  to  you  after  luncheon  —  no,  I  will 
get  it  now,"  and  she  impulsively  rose. 

"  Music  is  the  only  thing  that  is  quite 
safe,"  said  Mr.  Dacre,  after  she  had  left  the 
room. 

"  See,"  she  said,  as  she  returned  with  the 
violin, "  it  was  made  more  than  two  hundred 
years  ago  by  a  man  of  the  name  of  Stradi- 
varius.  I  am  going  to  ask  papa  to  have  him 
make  another  for  me." 

She  spoke  with  such  simple  belief,  such 
confidence  in  what  she  said,  that  I  did  not 
for  the  moment  appreciate  its  remarkable 
nature.  It  seemed  for  the  instant  that  the 
master  still  lived — still  wrought  at  Cremona. 

Alda  seldom  spoke,  and  I  could  see  that 
her  eyes  followed  every  motion  of  her  sister 
with  tender  interest.  She  seemed  utterly  lost 
in  Iduna  and  to  have  no  thought  for  herself. 
It  was  startling  in  its  strangeness  and  pathos, 
the  relation  existing  between  these  two  young 
girls,  so  far  apart  in  thought,  so  close  in  love 
— so  different,  and  yet  made  so  alike  by  the 
serenity  and  isolation  of  their  lives. 

Iduna  spoke  of  herself  with  the  utter  un 
reserve  of  a  child. 


26  IDUNA 

"  I  am  a  little  sad  sometimes,"  she  said, 
"  but  papa  tells  me  I  live  very  much  as  other 
girls  do,  only  that  I  am  happier  than  they, 
and  of  course  he  knows.  Alda  knows  much 
more  than  I  do,  and  she  says  as  he  does  ;  but 
if  I  knew  as  much,  I  am  sure  I  would  not  be 
satisfied  to  live  as  she  does.  Sometimes  I 
think  I  would  like  something  else — what,  I 
do  not  know.  Alda  tells  me  that  the  world 
is  very  large,  and  I  know  there  "is  much  in  it 
I  would  like  to  see.  I  go  to  the  big  globe, 
and  I  find  a  little  dot  called  London,  which 
Alda  tells  me  is  a  great  city  where  there  are 
millions  of  people,  and  then  I  find  another 
little  dot  called  Paris,  which  is  another  great 
place,  where  she  says  that  they  would  under 
stand  me  if  I  spoke  French  ;  but  when  I  ask 
papa  about  them  he  says  they  are  wicked 
and  ugly.  But  still  I  should  like  to  see  them 
— once." 

"  I  have  seen  them,"  I  answered,  "  and  I 
am  sure  that  they  would  only  make  you  un 
happy." 

"But,"  continued  Iduna,  "  there  are  other 
things.  I  know  about  the  opera — for  Alda 
has  told  me — where  there  is  a  crowd  of  peo 
ple  and  wonderful  music  ;  and  then  there  are 


IDUNA  27 

balls  where  everything  is  beautiful  and  you 
dance.  Oh,  I  sometimes  want  it  all  to  begin." 

She  paused,  and,  as  she  gazed  afar  off,  her 
eyes  caught  lustre  from  the  lights  of  the  vague 
and  brilliant  scenes  that  arose  before  her. 

After  luncheon,  while  Mr.  Dacre  and  Alda 
sat  under  the  shadow  of  a  huge  awning,  for 
the  noonday  heat  was  great,  I  walked  with 
Iduna  in  her  garden — 

"  The  fairest  garden  in  her  looks, 
And  in  her  mind  " 

something  infinitely  beyond  the  wisdom  of 
"the  wisest  books." 

"  But  does  this  really  interest  you  ?"  she 
asked. 

"  Why  should-  it  not  ?"  I  replied. 

"  I  should  think,"  she  said,  "  that  a  man 
who  can  go  everywhere  would  not  care  for 
such  things.  I  am  sure  I  should  not.  But" — 
and  she  stopped  suddenly — "  I  must  not  say 
this.  You  saw  how  grieved  papa  looked  at 
luncheon." 

Soon  we  reached  a  weather-stained  stone 
seat  that  had  been  placed  at  a  commanding 
point,  and  sat  down. 

"  How  beautiful !"  I  exclaimed,  involunta- 


28  IDUNA 

rily,  looking  out  on  a  wonderful  expanse  of 
verdant  land  and  glistening  sea. 

"  Is  it  ?"  asked  Iduna.  "  I  have  never  seen 
anything  else." 

We  looked  for  a  moment  in  silence  on  the 
scene. 

"  Tell  me  about  it,"  she  said,  with  a  pretty 
air  of  command. 

"What?"  I  asked. 

"  The  great,  big  world.  I  am  never  tired 
of  hearing  about  it.  There  must  be  other 
beautiful  places,  and  it  must  be  full  of  lovely 
things  and  charming  people." 

"  And  of  great  wrongs  and  forbidding 
sights,"  I  added. 

"  That  is  what  papa  says,"  she  replied,  sor 
rowfully. 

"What  a  fine  dog!"  I  exclaimed,  wishing 
to  turn  her  thoughts  in  another  direction,  as 
a  large  mastiff  took  his  slow,  lounging  way 
down  the  walk. 

"  Is  he  not  handsome  ?"  she  said.  "  And  I 
have  others,  and  I  have  birds.  Do  you  know," 
she  continued,  after  an  instant's  hesitation, 
"  something  so  strange  happened  to  one  of 
my  birds." 

"  What  ?"  I  asked. 


IDUNA  29 

"  About  a  week  ago,"  she  said,  speaking 
with  an  air  of  mystery,  "  I  found  it  lying  in 
its  cage  quite  cold  and  stiff.  They  said  that 
it  was  not  well,  as  they  say  I  am  ill  when  my 
head  aches  after  I  have  been  in  the  sun,  but 
this  was  not  like  that.  It  lay  very  still.  I 
do  not  think  that  it  could  move  at  all." 
She  looked  up  at  me  inquiringly.  "They 
took  it  away,  and  it  only  came  back  yester 
day." 

"  And  is  that  strange  ?" 

"  No,"  and  her  pure,  clear  eyes  met  mine  in 
actual  demand.  "  But  I  do  not  believe  that 
it  is  the  same  bird." 

"  Are  you  not  mistaken  ?" 

"  No;  I  am  quite  sure,"  she  replied.  "  But 
why  did  they  not  bring  back  my  bird  ?" 

I  could  make  no  answer. 

Mr.  Dacre  and  Alda  soon  joined  us.  I  saw 
that  he  thought  I  had  remained  long  enough, 
and  therefore,  though  I  would  have  given 
much  to  have  seen  Iduna  longer,  I  accompa 
nied  him  on  his  almost  immediate  return  to 
the  house. 

Alda  did  not  leave  her  sister. 

"  The  coming  of  a  stranger  is  a  great  event 
in  her  life,"  said  Mr.  Dacre,  as  we  walked 


30  IDUNA 

along,  "  and  her  excitement,  I  feared,  would 
be  great." 

He  looked  at  me  with  his  peculiarly  pierc 
ing  glance,  evidently  striving  to  sec  what  im 
pression  Iduna's  beauty  and  grace  had  made. 
It  was  plain  that  he  was  satisfied  with  what 
he  saw,  though  I  doubt  if  he  recognized  the 
full  extent  of  my  feeling.  Beside  all  else,  I 
felt  as  if  I  had  stood  in  some  place  hallowed 
by  Heaven's  highest  attributes — peace  and 
eternal  duration.  Iduna  almost  seemed  to 
me  the  immortal  being  she  thought  herself, 
whose  only  world  could  be  the  world  in  which 
she  thought  she  lived. 

"  Tell  me,"  I  said,  "  how  has  she  been  kept 
in  ignorance  so  long?" 

"  Love  can  do  much,"  he  answered,  "  and 
she  has  always  had  her  sister's  care.  When 
her  mother  died  I  withdrew  from  the  world. 
I,  who  had  hitherto  known  only  a  fevered  and 
intense  existence,  desired  to  live  in  complete 
seclusion.  My  disappearance  caused  at  the 
time  much  surprise ;  but  as  the  years  have 
passed  I  have  been  forgotten,  and  now  at  last 
am  left  in  peace.  I  came  here  in  the  hope 
that  my  children  might  escape  the  disease 
that  I  knew  threatened  them.  Here  I  have 


IDUNA  31 

ever  since  remained,  with  what  content  mem 
ory  and  prescience  allow  me.  Aldaand  Iduna 
have  been,  as  you  see  them,  always  alone — 
Alda  learning  much,  that  she  might  teach  her 
sister.  And  thus  Iduna  has  been  able  to  know 
all  usually  known  by  young  girls,  except  those 
fictions  called  histories,  and  those  histories 
called  fictions.  And  why  should  she  know 
these  ? — the  first  so  often  false  records  of  act 
ual  existences,  which,  having  received  the 
sanction  of  time,  serve  the  world  as  well  as 
truths  ;  the  second,  true  records  of  unreal 
existences,  called  false  because  they  are  but 
the  creatures  of  imagination,  and  which  in 
the  comparative  simplicity  of  their  incom 
pleteness  can  only  be  fully  understood,  and 
are  therefore  more  truthful  than  the  real; 
existences,  however,  in  that  very  incomplete 
ness  so  different  from  multiform  humanity 
that  they  are  as  delusive  to  the  inexperience 
of  youth  as  they  are  unsatisfactory  to  the 

wisdom  of  age." 

*  *  * 

It  amazed  me,  and  I  dwelt  upon  it  after 
Mr.  Dacre  had  left  me,  that  he  should  fail  to 
recognize  that  Iduna  could  not  learn  with 
out  danger  the  truth  incompatible  with  every 


32  1DUNA 

thought  of  her  life— that  truth  which  none 
of  us  could  bear  save  through  its  habitual 
and  familiar  but  almost  unrecognized  pres 
ence.  I  saw  that  a  great  danger  threatened 
her,  and  I  determined  that  I  would,  if  it  were 

possible,  avert  it. 

•*  •*  -x- 

A  few  days  passed,  and  already  the  time 
when  I  was  away  from  Iduna  seemed  a  sum 
of  hateful  seconds,  minutes,  hours,  to  be 
borne  as  best  it  might.  I  regarded  it  only  as 
so  much  superfluous  existence.  I  was  torn, 
worn,  perplexed  by  all  that  at  its  best  is  pain 
and  at  its  worst  is  pleasure.  In  short,  I  was 
in  love.  I  sought  the  sea,  as  have  the  lovers 
of  all  ages;  and  in  the  ceaseless  beat  and 
regular  pulse  of  the  changing,  changeless 
waves  I  seemed  to  find  a  certain  peace. 

I  sometimes  almost  brought  myself  to  be 
lieve  that  Iduna  was  touched  with  something 
which,  even  if  recognized,  would  be  inexpli 
cable  to  herself — something  trembling  tow 
ards  love  for  me.  I  could  hardly  believe  it 
possible  that  such  happiness  could  be  mine, 
and  yet  it  seemed  I  sometimes  saw  it — saw 
the  unrecognized  truth  that  only  the  word 
less  eyes  express. 


IDUNA  33 

Those  were  very  happy  days,  little  pre 
paring  us  for  what  was  to  come. 

One  night  Alda,  who  usually  dined  with 
Mr.  Dacre  and  myself,  sat  with  me,  as  the 
breeze  was  soft  and  warm,  on  the  terrace,  in 
the  strong,  white  moonlight. 

"  Iduna,"  she  said,  "  has  lately  passed  the 
most  eventful  days  of  her  life." 

"Your  own  life,"  I  answered,  "has  scarcely 
been  one  of  greater  variety." 

"  Not  in  incident,  but  in  thought ;  for  I 
have  always  known  of  the  last  great  change." 

"  You  must  have  found  your  task  some 
times  a  hard  one." 

"  No,"  she  replied,  "  for  it  has  been  no 
task  ;  it  has  been  a  duty  which  I  have  loved 
to  fulfil.  You  know  that  my  belief  is  the 
same  as  my  father's — that  our  acts  only  are 
immortal ;  that  every  action  of  our  lives  starts 
a  series  of  events  that  continues  always,  in 
creasing  and  widening  forever.  When  I  was 
a  little  girl  he  explained  it  all  to  me.  I  have 
always  known  I  must  die,  as  it  is  called,  very 
soon."  She  spoke  with  a  calmness,  pathetic 
in  its  deep  despair.  "  And  in  all  I  have  done 
I  have  only  gone  on  living  a  life  that  is  to 
live." 
3 


34  IDUNA 

I  listened,  profoundly  moved. 

"  The  dread  of  death,"  she  continued, 
"  robs  us  of  all  real  happiness.  Could  my 
sister  have  led  the  glad  life  she  has,  had  she 
known  the  truth  ?  Would  not  every  hour 
have  been  darkened  by  the  coming  doom  ? 
Could  I  bring  sorrow  on  one  I  loved  as  I 
loved  her?  And  would  I  not  have  done  this 
if  she  had  known  all  ?  And  now — " 

She  looked  at  me  in  an  agony  of  supplica 
tion. 

"Will  you,  can  you  help  me?"  she  said,  in 
a  low,  thrilling  tone. 

"  I  will  do  anything,"  I  answered — "  any 
thing." 

"  I  have  no  one  to  whom  I  can  go  for  help 
but  you." 

"  Your  father,"  I  suggested. 

"  He  least  of  any  one,"  she  said,  and  I  saw 
that  she  slightly  shuddered.  "  I  dare  not  tell 
him." 

"  Can  you  not  tell  me  ?"  I  asked. 

"  I  do  not  know.  Wait — I  was  weak — it 
was  an  impulse.  I  must  see  what  is  right." 

She  sat  silent  for  a  long  time,  almost  rigid 
in  the  intensity  of  thought. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said,  suddenly  rising. 


IDUNA  35 

Later  in  the  evening  when  alone  I  tried  to 
read,  to  write,  but  could  do  neither.  My  life 
was  strange  and  difficult.  When  with  Iduna 
I  was  forced  to  assume  a  gayety  I  might  not 
feel.  I  must  be  no  spot  in  her  sunshine,  no 
blot  on  the  face  of  her  fair  world.  With  Alda 
I  felt  all  the  suffering  of  a  life  without  joy  in 
the  present,  without  hope  for  the  future  ;  I 
shared  her  sorrow  as  I  seemed  to  share 
Iduna's  happiness. 

They  were  both  excellent  musicians,  play 
ing  with  great  skill  and  feeling,  and  Iduna — 
Alda  did  not  sing — often  sang  for  me  with 
out  the  slightest  embarrassment,  and  with  the 
free,  natural  impulse  of  a  bird.  Her  voice  was 
pure  and  rare,  and  moved  me  deeply.  Then 
I  first  noticed  a  slight  shade  of  care  in  any 
thing  she  did,  and  I  wondered  what  could 
have  taught  her  the  low,  wild  sadness  that 
throbbed  in  those  glorious  tones.  Her  songs 
were,  of  course,  such  as  could  awaken  no  sus 
picion  of  the  truth  kept  from  her. 

One  day  I  came  upon  some  sketches  made 
by  the  sisters,  which  showed  great  artistic 
feeling  and  much  technical  excellence. 

"How  did  you  learn  to  do  this?"  I  asked 
Iduna. 


36  IDUNA 

"  Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  "  Alda  taught   me. 

She  has  taught  me  everything." 

*  -x-  # 

As  Iduna  always  had  been,  so  was  she  now, 
deeply  interested  in  the  outer  world.  She 
regarded  me  as  a  new-comer  from  that  won 
derful  place,  with  the  same  feeling  of  awe  and 
admiration  with  which  people  of  old  must 
have  looked  upon  some  one  who  had  just 
returned  from  a  long  and  perilous  journey 
through  distant  and  unknown  countries.  She 
could  not  have  viewed  me  with  more  curios 
ity  had  I  been  an  inhabitant  of  another  world, 
and  indeed  I  could  not  have  come  from  one 
any  stranger  than  the  one  she  pictured  to 
herself.  As  I  realized  more  and  more  what 
she  thought,  I  was  more  and  more  amazed. 
To  her,  Velasquez  still  wielded  his  heroic 
brush,  Titian  yet  created  his  wondrous  tones, 
and  Rembrandt  held  sway  over  light  and 
shadow.  To  her,  Handel  still  wrote  orato 
rios,  Mozart  operas,  and  Schubert  songs.  To 
her,  many  a  great  writer  of  the  past,  known 
through  verses  untouched  with  mortality,  still 
lived.  I  wondered  how  much  she  had  really 
learned  of  the  great  names  of  history,  and  I 
once  incautiously  spoke  of  Napoleon. 


IDUNA  37 

"  Napoleon,"  she  said  ;  "  who  is  he  ?" 

"  A  very  great  man." 

"  Does  he  make  music  or  pictures  or  poe 
try?" 

"  None  of  these,"  I  answered. 

"  But  you  say  he  is  a  very  great  man." 

I  could  not  tell  her  that  he  was  a  great 
soldier,  something  she  could  not  understand. 

"  But  what  does  he  make  ?"  she  insisted. 

"  Nothing." 

"  Then  how  is  he  great?  Oh,  I  know,"  she 
exclaimed,  suddenly  ;  "  he  does  a  great  deal 
of  good." 

"No." 

"  Then  how  is  he  great  ?" 

"  The  ruler  of  a  people  is  always  great,"  I 
answered,  evasively. 

"  But  he  is  only  great  because  he  can  do 
so  much  good,"  she  replied,  triumphantly. 
''  So  you  see  I  was  right." 

I  tried  to  learn  her  simple  ideas  of  the  con 
ditions  of  life.  I  found  that  she  had  not 
hitherto  sought  to  explain  much  ;  indeed,  she 
had  not  been  allowed  to  see  much  that  she 
would  think  should  be  explained.  She  lived 
absolutely  secluded,  and  never  talked  with 
any  one  except  her  father,  Alda,  and  myself. 


38  IDUNA 

"  I  like,"  she  said,  "  to  think  of  the  crowded 
world,  to  imagine  myself  in  cities,  to  fancy 
that  I  wander  through  their  streets,  to  listen 
to  the  sound  of  many  voices.  I  wonder  if 
what  I  think  is  at  all  like  what  they  really 
are." 

I  could  not  tell  her  how  much  her  radiant 

visions  differed  from  reality. 

*  *  * 

Within  a  few  days  I  again  found  myself 
alone  with  Alda  on  the  terrace. 

"  I  want,"  she  said,  hurriedly,  "  to  finish 
what  I  began  to  tell  you." 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  and  I  felt  that  what  she 
was  about  to  say  was  of  such  a  nature  as  to 
preclude  formal  speech. 

"  I  have  not  dared  to  tell  my  father.  I  do 
not  know  how  he  could  bear  it.  I  have  strug 
gled  alone  with  my  sorrow."  She  paused, 
looking  wistfully  out  over  the  sea.  "  I  shall 
not  live  much  longer." 

I  uttered  an  abrupt  exclamation  of  dis 
sent. 

"  I  am  not  as  strong  as  you  all  think  I  am. 
Day  by  day  I  have  striven  to  appear  well, 
but  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  much  longer  main 
tain  the  deception.  At  any  moment  I  may 


IDUNA  39 

be  too  weak  to  act  my  part,  and  I  tremble  to 
think  of  what  will  happen  to  him — to  Iduna." 

I  saw  in  an  instant  of  fearful  recognition 
the  terrors  of  the  impending  catastrophe.  If 
Mr.  Dacre  were  called  upon  again  to  bear 
the  visitation  of  his  dread  enemy — if  Iduna 
were  suddenly  to  learn  that  she  must  thus 
part  from  her  sister,  and  that  eyery  thought 
of  her  life  was  mistaken  —  I  could  but  fear 
the  worst. 

"  I  ask  you  for  help,"  she  said.  "  I  have,  as 
I  told  you,  no  one  else  to  whom  I  can  go." 

"  What  can  I  do  ?"  I  asked  eagerly.  "  What 
ever  you  want  me  to  do  I  will  do." 

"  My  father  must  know  the  truth." 

"And  you  wish  me  to  tell  him!"  I  ex 
claimed,  almost  in  terror. 

"Yes.     I  cannot  do  it." 

I  stood  appalled  at  the  difficulty,  the  pain- 
fulness  of  what  she  proposed,  but  never  for 
an  instant  did  I  think  of  refusing  to  do  as  she 
wished. 

"  I  will  tell  him,"  I  answered,  quickly,  "  that 
you  say  you  are  not  as  strong  as  he  thinks 
you  are  —  not  that  you  fear  the  worst.  In 
deed,"  I  added,  "  I  cannot  believe  that  I  need 
say  that." 


40  IDUNA 

"  Even  what  you  tell  him  will  shock  him 
greatly,"  she  said,  entirely  disregarding  the 
latter  part  of  what  I  had  said. 

"  But  he  must  be  told." 

"Wait — wait,"  she  said,  suddenly.  "Wait 
at  least  another  day.  I  may  be  better.  I 
will  find  an  opportunity  to  tell  you  what  to 
do.  I  must  think." 

I  passed  a  night  of  agonizing  thought.  I 
could  only  hope  that  Alda,  overcome  by  mor 
bid  fancies,  imagined  herself  worse  than  she 
really  was.  I  could  only  await,  with  what 
courage  and  confidence  I  might,  the  course 
of  events. 

I  was  more  impressed  than  ever  with  the 
strangeness  of  my  position  when  I  met  Iduna 
on  the  following  morning.  She  was  standing 
with  the  bright  sunlight  falling  on  her,  and 
the  scarlet,  yellow,  and  purple  glories  of  the 
summer  about  her.  In  her  hand  she  held  a 
dead  butterfly.  It  was  a  \vondrous  allegory, 
this  fair  young  creature  looking  with  such 
gentle  interest  at  this  emblem  of  the  soul.  I 
thought  she  gazed  upon  it  as  some  angel 
might  upon  some  newly  disembodied  spirit. 

"  See,"  she  said,  glancing  up  perplexedly 
from  the  gorgeously  colored  thing,  "there  is 


IDUNA  41 

something  the  matter  with  it.  I  think  it 
must  be  broken." 

She  spoke  as  she  might  of  a  watch  that 
had  stopped  running. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  as  if  in  inquiry,  and 
anxiously  awaiting  what  she  might  say. 

"  Will  it  never  fly  again  ?"  she  asked. 

I  affected  to  examine  it  with  great  care. 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  she  went  on,  "  but 
what  becomes  of  them  when  they  are  broken? 
Are  they  not  mended  ?" 

"  No,"  I  replied. 

"Why?" 

"  I  suppose,"  I  answered,  "  no  one  cares 
enough  for  them." 

"  But  I  do — the  beautiful  thing.  Take  it," 
she  said,  with  an  air  of  authority,  placing 
the  dead  insect  in  my  hand,  "  and  have  it 
mended." 

She  was  for  a  moment  lost  in  deep  thought, 
and  then  asked : 

"  But  are  people  never  broken  ?M 

I  dared  not  answer. 

"  If  I  should  fall  from  the  top  of  the  cliff, 
I  should  be  broken  ?" 

"  Yes,"  I  replied. 

"And  then  I  should  be  mended,"  she  con- 


42  IDUNA 

tinued,  meditatively.  "  It  is  all  very  strange. 
I  never  thought  of  it  before.  I  once  saw  a 
man  who  had  but  one  arm.  He  looked  very 
poor.  I  suppose  he  was  mended  badly." 

My  presence  in  her  father's  house  had 
awakened  her  to  many  an  inquiry,  and  she 
seemed  now  on  the  very  verge  of  the  great 
discovery.  Mr.  Dacre  told  me  that  she  had 
changed  greatly  in  a  short  time.  Heretofore, 
she  had  heard  everything  with  the  simple 
confidence  of  childhood,  and,  indeed,  in  much 
she  was  but  a  child.  But  now  she  seemed  to 
have  grown  suddenly  older,  and  there  ap 
peared  a  vague  doubt  in  her  voice,  and  a  cer 
tain  misgiving  in  her  eyes.  Still,  her  world 
seemed  really  untouched  ;  still,  she  lived 
among  her  own  fair  visions,  thinking 

"  Unthought-like  thoughts   that  are   the  souls  of 
thought." 

But  in  her  mind  there  was  unaccustomed  ac 
tivity,  intermittent,  but  evidently  increasing. 

I  remember  that  very  day  we  saw  a  bird 
soaring  in  the  air,  and  that  she  murmured 
the  first  half-dozen  stanzas  of  Shelley's  "  Sky 
lark." 

"Spirit?"  I  interrupted. 


IDUNA  43 

"  Oh,"  she  answered,  "  do  you  not  under 
stand? — a  fairy." 

"  Do  you  believe  in  fairies  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Of  course,"  she  answered,  looking  at  me 
in  surprise.  "  Do  not  you  ?" 

"  Some  do  not,"  I  said. 

"  How  very  strange  !"  she  replied,  wonder- 
ingly.  "  But  everything  is  very  strange  now. 
I  feel  as  I  never  have  felt  before.  I  feel  as 
if  I  were  far  away  somewhere — in  a  place  I 
had  never  seen  before.  I  feel  as  if  I  were 
lost." 

She  seemed,  indeed,  lost  in  vague  wonder 
ment,  and,  to  distract  her  attention,  I  asked 
her  if  she  knew  the  rest. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  answered,  with  a  quick  re 
turn  to  her  own  glad  self. 

She  repeated  the  last  four  stanzas.     The 

others  had  evidently  not  been  taught  to  her. 
*  *  * 

I  awaited  all  day,  with  great  anxiety,  the 
promised  message  from  Alda,  but  none  came. 
I  tried  to  hope  that  all  might  still  be  well. 
But  in  the  evening  what  little  confidence  I 
had  was  in  a  moment  destroyed. 

"  You  must  tell  him,"  she  whispered,  hur 
riedly,  as  I  held  back  a  curtain  for  her  to 


44  IDUNA 

pass.  "  Tell  him  the  most  that  you  think  is 
right." 

After  she  had  taken  a  step  or  two  she 
turned  back. 

"  Tell  him  soon,"  she  said ;  "  tell  him  to 
morrow." 

I  felt  that  we  were  on  the  verge  of  some 
terrible  experience.  I  could  not  but  believe 
that  what  she  feared  must  soon  come  to  pass. 
Her  accents  of  anguish  c'arried  conviction, 
and  I  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  what 
might  be  immediately  before  us. 

Early  the  next  morning  I  received  a  hur 
ried  note  from  Mr.  Dacre,  begging  me  to 
come  to  him  with  all  speed. 

Before  he  spoke  I  saw  that  his  grief  was 
terrible. 

"  Alda,"  he  said,  shudderingly, "  is  very  ill." 

With  a  quick  prescience  of  impending  evil 
that  only  long  suffering  could  give,  he  fore 
saw  all. 

I  had  not  expected  so  rude  an  awakening.  I 
asked  him  what  he  had  done,  and  learned  that 
he  had  sent  to  the  metropolis  for  a  famous 
physician,  who  was  to  come  with  all  the  speed 
unlimited  expenditure  could  make  possible. 


IDUNA  45 

Iduna  had  often  been  left  alone  while  Alda 
was  with  Mr.  Dacre,  and  it  was  therefore  easy 
to  keep  her  from  suspecting  anything.  I  would 
be  able  satisfactorily  to  answer  any  inquiry 
about  her  sister  by  saying  that  she  was  busy 
with  her  father. 

As  I  entered  the  room  I  paused  for  an  in 
stant  at  the  door.  Iduna  was  singing,  and  I 
caught  the  refrain  of  a  song  I  had  written 
for  her : 

A  grief  that  comes 

Is  a  joy  when  sped  ; 
And  a  joy,  after  all, 
Is  a  grief  when  fled. 

"What  do  you  know,"  I  asked,  trying  to 
speak  cheerfully,  "of  griefs  and  joys?" 

"  Oh,  very  much." 

"What  is  a  grief?"  I  asked,  and  I  thought 
that  she  might  soon  know  grief  greater  than 
she  could  bear. 

"A  grief  —  it  is  when  the  winter  comes, 
when  the  night  draws  on,  when  the  day  is 
dark  with  clouds." 

Her  deep  sympathy  with  nature  was  height 
ened  by  her  utter  ignorance  of  anything  really 
like  human  experience,  and  she  there  found  a 
source  for  grief  which  is  common  to  us  all.  I 


46  IDUNA 

thought  that  indeed  sorrow  must  be  equal  in 
all  lives.  Her  sensitive  nature  felt  the  mourn 
ful  aspects  of  the  outer  world  with  singular 
intensity,  and  she  was  as  much  affected  by 
such  subtle  and  generally  disregarded  influ 
ences  as  is  an  ordinary  mortal  by  the  harrow 
ing  occurrences  of  life. 

"And  joy?"  I  continued. 

"  It  is  when  you  hear  gay  music,  when  the 
flowers  come,  and  when  the  sun  shines." 

Music  for  her  but  expressed  the  changing 
phases  of  nature.  To  her  it  had  never  sobbed 
a  dirge  or  pealed  a  requiem. 

In  the  afternoon  the  physician  arrived. 
We  awaited  what  he  might  say  in  agonizing 
suspense. 

I  was  with  Mr.  Dacre  when  the  opinion 
was  given,  and  I  could  see  that  he  tried  to 
prepare  himself  to  hear  the  worst.  The  great 
physician,  with  that  gentle,  scarcely  broken 
impassibility  which,  as  a  frequent  bearer  of 
the  tidings  of  death,  he  had  insensibly  ac 
quired,  spoke  hesitatingly  but  positively.  He 
tried  to  break  all  to  us  as  gently  as  possible, 
but  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  the  truth. 
There  was  no  room  for  hope. 

"  The  disease  has  made  such  inroads,"  he 


IDUNA  47 

said,  finally,  "  that  I  must  warn  you  that  the 
end  may  be  very  near." 

Mr.  Dacre  did  not  even  raise  his  head.  He 
said  nothing  until  we  were  alone,  and  then  he 
burst  wildly  forth  : 

"  Again  the  curse  has  come  upon  me. 
Again  must  I  endure  the  unutterable  agony 
of  a  last  parting.  Death,  Death,  my  enemy 
and  my  conqueror,  when  will  you  complete 
your  work  and  make  me  your  grateful  vic 
tim  ?" 

He  paused  in  sudden  thought. 

"  But  Iduna!"  he  exclaimed. 

"  She  cannot  be  told,"  I  said,  decisively, 
"  it  might  kill  her." 

"  It  might  kill  her!"  he  repeated  slowly,  as 
if  at  first  he  did  not  apprehend  what  I  said  ; 
and  then  he  added,  as  if  its  full  meaning  had 
suddenly  flooded  in  upon  him  with  all  the 
anguish  and  dismay  it  could  bring,  "  I  had 
thought  she  might  live  on  happily,  and  that 
when  she  learned  the  truth,  her  happy  years 
would  help  her  to  bear  it.  It  might  kill  her! 
Outraged  Death  fills  me  with  a  new  terror." 

His  grief  and  horror  overcame  him. 

"What  can  be  done?"  he  asked  at  length, 
helplessly. 


48  ID  UNA 

"We  must  tell  her  that  Alda  is  going 
away,"  I  answered,  feeling  that  something 
must  indeed  be  done,  and  being  unable  in 
my  consternation  to  think  of  anything  better. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  obediently. 

"  We  will  gain  time — Alda  may  recover — 
all  may  be  well  yet." 

I  went  immediately  to  Iduna,  whom  I  now 
felt  it  my  duty  to  protect.  She  again  asked 
for  Alda,  and  I  told  her  that  she  was  busy 
with  her  father,  thinking  it  wise  to  delay  as 
much  as  possible  the  announcement  that  her 
sister  was  going  away.  She  was  painting, 
and  she  showed  me  her  work. 

"  Is  it  like  a  city?"  she  asked. 

It  was  the  city  of  a  dream.  Tall  palaces 
rose  one  above  another,  fountains  plashed  in 
the  great  squares,  and  through  the  marble 
ways  poured  throngs  of  people,  clad  in  gold 
and  purple.  On  the  broad,  dark  waters  of 
the  harbor  rode  stately  ships,  while  a  sky  of 
perfect  blue  bent  down  to  meet  the  dim  and 
distant  mountains.  Faulty  though  the  work 
might  be,  and  inspired  as  it  was  by  the  pict 
ures  of  Turner,  the  effect  was  indescribable. 
It  was  a  vision  dazzling,  bewildering,  beauti 
ful,  that  she  alone  could  have  seen. 


IDUNA  49 

As  the  day  passed,  Alda  became  stronger 
and  asked  to  see  her  sister.  Though  no  real 
farewell  was  possible,  she  wished  to  speak 
once  more  to  Iduna.  Unnatural,  horrible 
even  as  such  an  interview  must  be,  who  could 
deny  her  this  last  request  ?  She  insisted,  I 
was  afterwards  told,  on  rising,  and  leaning  on 
her  father  —  almost  carried  by  him  —  she 
reached  Iduna's  apartments. 

I  would  have  withdrawn,  but  Mr.  Dacre 
motioned  me  to  remain. 

"  You  have  not  come  all  day,"  said  Iduna, 
reproachfully.  Alda,  as  soon  as  she  was 
in  the  presence  of  her  sister,  seemed  to 
regain  her  strength  in  a  marvellous  man 
ner. 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

"  I  am  going  away." 

"  Going  away !"  repeated  Iduna  in  won 
der. 

"Yes." 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  !" 

I  involuntarily  put  out  my  hand,  seeking 
support. 

"  Glad — glad,  Iduna  !"  said  Alda,  slowly. 

"  Yes.  Glad,  so  very  glad  !  You  will  see 
4 


50  IDUNA 

so  much,  and  when  you  come  back  you  will 
tell  it  all  to  me." 

"  But,"  said  Alda,  and  to  me  who  knew  her 
infinite  anguish,  it  seemed  she  spoke  with  a 
calmness  not  of  the  earth,  "  I  may  be  gone  a 
long  time." 

"A  long  time,"  answered  Iduna  in  amaze 
ment.  "  There  is  no  long  time.  We  have 
all  time.  What  can  it  matter?" 

"  Nothing." 

"And  you  will  see  the  world — you  will  see 
all  of  which  we  have  talked  and  dreamed. 
How  happy  you  will  be." 

"  If  you  are  happy,  then  I  am  happy." 

"  I  am  happy,  only — "  and  she  paused.  "  I 
should  be  so  glad  to  go  with  you." 

"It  is  a  journey  upon  which  I  must  go 
alone." 

"Where?" 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"And  why?" 

"  I  cannot  tell." 

"  Will  papa  go  with  you  ?" 

"  No." 

Already  Alda's  strength  was  failing ;  in 
deed,  I  do  not  think  she  could  have  borne 
longer  the  agony  of  that  last,  strange  parting. 


IDUNA  51 

"  Shall  I  see  you  again  before  you  go  ?" 
Iduna  asked. 

"  No,"  replied  Alda,  for  the  first  time  losing 
her  marvellous  self-control.  "  I  am  going 
now." 

"  I  shall  think  of  you  every  moment,"  said 
Iduna,  gently.  Parting  had,  in  her  belief  that 
life  was  endless,  no  meaning  such  as  embit 
ters  the  slightest  separation  from  those  we 
love. 

Mr.  Dacre  had  stood  as  if  stupefied  by  be 
numbing  woe.  His  eyes  were  fixed  and 
meaningless,  and  his  lips  painfully  rigid.  He 
looked  like  one  in  a  trance. 

As  the  sisters  drew  close  in  an  embrace 
which  I  knew  would  be  the  last,  I  turned 
away. 

Once  out  of  Iduna's  sight,  Alda's  will  sus 
tained  her  no  longer,  and  she  sank  uncon 
scious.  I  feared  that  the  end  might  come 
even  then,  and  waited  for  some  time  before 
I  returned  to  Iduna.  I  expected  that  she 
would  immediately  ask  me  if  her  sister  had 
gone,  but  the  thought  that  Alda  would  have 
remained  after  parting  with  her  would  have 
been  impossible  to  her. 

The  sky,  which  for  days  had  been  the  per- 


52  IDUNA 

fection  of  calm,  clear  blue,  now  seemed  hazy 
and  hot,  and  in  the  distance  could  be  heard 
the  low  rumble  of  thunder.  I  saw  Iduna 
start,  and  that  a  slight  tremor  passed  over 
her. 

"  You  are  afraid,"  I  said. 

"It  is  terrible/'  she  exclaimed.  "If  it 
comes  while  Alda  is  away,  I  do  not  know 
what  I  shall  do." 

The  hours  dragged  slowly  by,  and,  leaving 
Iduna,  I  sought  news  of  Alda.  Mr.  Dacre 
was  with  her,  and  the  attendants  said  that 
she  was  sinking  fast. 

I  returned  to  Iduna. 

She  was  gazing  pensively  upon  the  land 
scape,  which  now  lay  under  the  lessening 
light  of  a  fair,  sunset  sky ;  for,  as  sometimes 
happens  towards  evening,  the  threatening 
heavens  had  cleared,  and  all  was  soft  and 
golden. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  Alda,"  she  said. 

"Yes." 

"  I  feel  a  sadness  that  I  never  knew  before. 
I  wonder  why  she  went." 

"  She  told  you  that  she  must." 

"  She  told  me  she  could  not  tell  me  why 
she  went,  but  she  will  tell  me  some  time." 


IDUNA  53 

I  had  often  been  struck  with  Iduna's  sim 
ple  faith,  and  was  not  now  surprised  at  her 
content  with  our  inadequate  explanation. 
Nothing  seemed  unnatural  to  her,  for  the 
reason  that  all  her  life  was  so  unnatural. 
The  wildest  fancy  of  the  most  marvellous 
fairy  tale  would  have  seemed,  in  her  ample 
trust,  possible  and  usual. 

"  I  do  not  feel  as  if  I  were  myself,"  she  con 
tinued,  rising  and  walking  rapidly  up  and 
down.  "Something  is  coming — something 
I  cannot  understand." 

"  What  ?"  I  asked. 

"  I  feel  as  if  a  darkness  had  fallen  over 
everything." 

Indeed,  she  seemed  strangely  changed.  A 
fear  lay  in  her  eyes  that  I  had  never  seen 
before. 

"  But  I  will  think  of  Alda,"  she  continued. 
"  I  will  try  and  imagine  where  she  is.  I  will 
think  of  her  in  the  world  so  new  to  her.  I 
will  think  of  her  looking  with  wondering 
eyes  on  so  many  strange  things.  I  will  think 
of  her  away  off  in  that  great  wide  place." 

Her  words  were  hideous  to  me  in  their 
terrible  significance.  Alda  might  indeed  be 
in  a  new,  strange  world,  stranger  even  than 


54  IDUNA 

Iduna  could  imagine  —  so  strange  that  phi 
losopher  or  visionary  in  all  earth's  genera 
tions  has  never  been  able  even  to  approach 

conception  of  it. 

*  *  * 

That  night  Alda  died. 

She  was  conscious  until  the  last,  and  even 
at  that  supreme  moment,  thought,  as  she  had 
done  all  her  life  long,  of  others  rather  than 
herself.  She  spoke  cheeringly  to  her  father, 
trying  to  comfort  him  in  his  unutterable 
agony.  She  did  not  speak  of  Iduna,  except 
to  repeat  her  name  again  and  again  in  tones 
of  longing  tenderness.  When  I  heard  some 
time  after  midnight  that  the  end  had  come, 
I  went  out  into  the  darkness — in  my  grief  I 
could  not  endure  the  confining  walls — and 
paced  the  echoing  terrace  until  the  sun  rose. 
I  did  not  see  Mr.  Dacre.  He  had  not  left 
the  room  where  Alda  died,  and  now  sat,  the 
physician  told  me,  speechless  by  her  side. 

I  found  Iduna  as  she  had  been  the  day  be 
fore,  disturbed,  restless,  almost  wild. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said,  coming  eagerly  tow 
ards  me,  "  has  Alda  really  gone?" 

"  Yes,"  I  answered.  She  could  not  know 
in  what  sense  her  sister  had  gone  from  her. 


IDUNA  55 

"  I  did  not  know — I  have  been  thinking  all 
night — it  seemed  that  you  were  all  keeping 
something  from  me." 

Evidently  she  did  not  expect  an  answer ; 
I  did  not  make  any. 

"  I  remember, "  she  continued,  "  that  a  long 
time  ago,  a  very  long  time  ago,  I  once  saw  a 
book  that  had  a  strange  word  in  it.  I  do  not 
know  why  I  remember  it  now,  unless  for  the 
reason  that  it  is  the  only  thing  that  has  ever 
really  troubled  me,  and  now  when  I  am  so 
sad  I  think  of  it."  , 

"  You  must  not  trouble  yourself  about  a 
word,"  I  said,  but  she  did  not  hear  me.  The 
accumulated  questionings  of  years  of  vague 
uncertainty  seemed  to  be  taking  form.  As 
steam,  at  first  invisible,  becomes  perceptible 
vapor  as  it  rises,  and  finally  falls  in  drops,  so 
were  the  dim  exhalations  of  her  doubts  re 
solving  themselves  into  questions. 

"  It  was  a  little  word,"  she  went  on,  "  and 
I  asked  Alda  what  it  meant,  but  she  said  it 
was  something  I  must  not  know.  How  could 
a  word  mean  something  I  must  not  know?" 

Remember  that  I  loved  her  passionately, 
wholly,  unquestioningly,  and  you  will  perhaps 
understand  with  what  torture  I  heard  her 


5&  IDUNA 

speak  as  she  did.  I  could  do  nothing  to  help 
her.  I  could  only  try  and  keep  her  from  learn 
ing  that  ghastly  truth  which,  suddenly  heard 
in  all  its  awful  entirety,  none  could  bear. 

"  She  said  I  must  not  know  what  it  meant, 
and  so  I  cannot  ask  you  about  it.  There  are 
things,  then,  we  should  not  know?" 

"  Yes,"  I  answered. 

"  How  strange  !  The  world  seems  stranger 
every  day.  And  must  we  not  know,  too,  why 
we  must  not  know?" 

"  Often." 

*  *  * 

The  day  was  intensely  hot,  and  I  told 
Iduna  that  the  heavy,  stifling  atmosphere 
had  affected  her. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  "  but  I  feel  as  if  some 
thing  was  to  happen.  I  feel  as  I  do  before 
the  thunder  and  the  lightning  come.  I  feel 
what  Alda  told  me  is  called  terror." 

About  noon  a  servant  informed  me  that 
Mr.  Dacre  desired  to  see  me. 

I  was  to  meet  him  in  the  library.  When 
I  entered  no  one  was  there,  and  as  I  stood 
waiting,  all  the  incidents  of  my  stay  in  the 
house  passed  in  rapid  review.  I  thought  of 
the  happy,  peaceful  hours  that  at  first  flew 


IDUNA  57 

so  swiftly  by,  hours  in  which  my  love  for 
Iduna  had  grown  to  an  overmastering  pas 
sion.  I  thought  of  Alda's  first  appeal  to  me 
that  night  on  the  moonlit  terrace,  a  night 
that  seemed  so  very  far  away  and  yet  was  in 
reality  so  near.  I  thought  of  that  last  inter 
view  between  the  sisters. 

Mr.  Dacre  entered. 

I  could  not  believe  it  possible  that  such  a 
change  could  have  taken  place  in  so  short  a 
time.  He  came  towards  me  with  the  bent 
form  and  hesitating  step  of  great  age.  As  he 
slowly  approached,  I  could  see  how  his  cheeks 
had  fallen,  how  sunken  were  his  eyes.  His 
very  voice  was  different  —  no  longer  of  rich, 
vigorous  tone,  but  weak  and  quavering. 

"  Iduna,"  he  said,  "  is  she  well  ?" 

"  Yes,"  I  replied. 

"  She  does  not  know  ?"  he  continued. 

"  No." 

"  But  she  must." 

"  In  time  she  must.    It  might  kill  her  now." 

"  I  have  dared  too  much,"  he  said,  wildly. 
"  This  is  my  punishment.  My  faith  in  faith 
lessness  is  gone.  That  indefinable  Power 
that  men  in  all  ages  have  held  in  awe — in 
the  fair  deities  of  the  ancient  world,  in  the 


58  IDUNA 

harsh  tyrants  of  untutored  savages,  in  the 
more  perfect  conceptions  of  a  later  time — 
that  Power  I  have  outraged.  This — this  is 
my  retribution." 

I  caught  him  as  he  fell,  and,  placing  him  in 
a  chair,  I  despatched  a  servant  for  the  physi 
cian.  Mr.  Dacre  had  fainted.  As  the  re 
storatives  were  applied  I  happened  to  glance 
through  the  window.  The  oppressive  heat 
of  the  day  was  not  lessened  by  a  breeze,  and 
I  saw  that  dark,  heavy  clouds,  glowing  with 
a  yellowish  purple,  were  rising  over  the  sea. 
It  was  the  storm  that  had  threatened  through 
the  day.  The  clouds  came  on  with  the  swift 
ness,  the  apparent  intensity  of  purpose  pecul 
iar  to  the  summer,  and  low,  but  deep,  I  could 
hear  the  mutter  of  the  thunder.  I  thought 
of  Iduna,  but  at  that  moment  the  physician 
called  upon  me  to  assist  him.  I  felt  the  first 
hot,  sickening  gust  of  a  newly  awakened 
wind,  and  saw  a  blinding,  brilliant  flash  of 
lightning.  I  could  hear  the  stroke  of  the 
rising  waves  on  the  beach.  A  deep  gloom 
overspread  earth  and  sea.  The  big  drops  of 
the  hastening  rain  began  to  fall.  The  light 
ning  was  almost  incessant ;  the  roar  of  the 
storm  continuous.  The  wind  blew  a  hurri- 


ID  UNA  59 

cane.  The  rain  fell,  it  almost  seemed,  in  a 
solid,  steely  mass.  The  tumult  was  inde 
scribable.  Remembering  Iduna's  fear  of  the 
thunder,  I  longed  to  return  to  her,  but  stood 
for  a  moment  irresolute,  doubting  if  I  should 
leave  her  father. 

Suddenly,  together,  there  came  a  crash  as 
if  the  world  itself  were  shattered— a  flash — 
a  starting  sinew  on  the  arm  of  God. 

The  bolt  had  struck  the  house. 

I  stood  appalled.  I  could  hear  the  rush  of 
the  frightened  servants  through  the  halls, 
and  then  there  was  comparative  stillness. 

What  a  shriek ! 

My  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating.  I  started 
in  the  direction  of  the  sound.  Hastening  on, 
I  came  to  the  room  from  which  the  cry  pro 
ceeded.  I  paused  upon  the  threshold,  stunned 
by  what  I  saw.  Iduna  lay  upon  the  dead  body 
of  her  sister.  In  the  excitement  of  the  mo 
ment,  and  abandoned  by  her  attendants,  in 
her  terror  of  the  storm,  she  had  fled  to  seek 
her  father,  and — she  was  alone  with  death  ! 

Hearing  me  approach,  she  looked  quickly 
up. 

"Help  me  —  help  me!"  she  cried,  agoniz 
ingly.  "  What  can  have  happened?  I  cannot 


60  IDUNA 

awaken  her ;  she  is  so  white  and  cold  and 
still.  I  am  afraid  of  my  sister.  Alda!  Alda!" 

Even  in  her  terror  it  seemed  she  sought 
with  multiplied  kisses  to  give  warmth,  mo 
tion  to  the  inanimate  body. 

I  stood  speechless.  I  could  not  tell  her 
that  her  sister  would  never  awake  again. 
I  could  not  then  reveal  this  horror  and 
mystery  of  the  world.  I  could  not  tell 
her  what  it  was.  I  could  not  tell  her  that 
this  was  death  —  awful  in  any  form  even  to 
those  who  through  life  have  anticipated  its 
coming. 

"Can  you  do  nothing?"  she  cried,  in  pitiful 
anguish,  as  she  looked  up  at  me. 

"Nothing." 

"Is  it  true?"  she  exclaimed,  while  a  strange, 
tremulous  look,  as  if  reason  itself  were  shaken, 
came  into  her  eyes.  "  Is  this  the  thing  I 
feared?"  She  grasped  my  arm,  and  spoke 
almost  in  a  whisper,  "  Is  this  what  I  once 
dreamed  —  something  that  must  come  when 
we  can  neither  move,  nor  breathe,  nor  speak? 
I  thought,"  she  continued,  her  voice  becoming 
hoarse,  almost  raspingly  hoarse  in  horror,  "  it 
was  not  true,  and  yet  I  dared  not  ask.  Tell 
me,"  she  spoke  so  low  that  I  could  hardly 


IDUNA  61 

hear  her,  as  she  pointed  to  her  sister,  "  is  this 
that  word — death  ?" 

I  did  not  speak. 

"  It  is  true !"  she  shrieked,  and,  starting 
back,  she  fell  to  the  floor. 

This  strange  story  was  told  to  me  by  an 
old  friend  whom  I  had  not  seen  for  a  long 
time.  He  told  it  to  me  as  we  sat  before  the 
sinking  fire  in  the  last  hours  of  a  winter  night. 
We  had  been  at  the  great  ball  of  the  year, 
and  he  had  come  home  with  me.  As  he  fin 
ished,  the  flame  flickered  low,  and  I  noticed 
that  the  gray  light  of  morning  was  beginning 
to  steal  through  the  curtains.  A  white  rose 
dropped  from  his  button-hole  and  fell  among 
the  ashes  of  many  cigars. 

"Did  she  die?" 

"  No,"  he  answered,  slowly  and  gently. 
"  Within  eventless  walls,  where  even  the  pres 
ent  time  seems  measureless,  Iduna  lives.  She 
is  one  of  a  religious  sisterhood.  She  seeks  the 
immortality  she  once  thought  was  hers." 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  CASE 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  CASE 


"  T  T  TELL,  Alston,  my  occidental  Croesus, 
V  V  there's  nothing  like  the  meeting  of 
old  friends.  It  wakes  up  the  sympathies,  it 
checks  the  heart's  corrosion.  But  you — rust 
hasn't  touched  that  organ.  How  prosperity 
has  agreed  with  you  !  Me  ! — tartrate  of  acri 
mony  has  been  my  medicine  for  many  a  day ; 
and  what  good  has  it  done  me?" 

Alston  said  nothing,  but  stood  looking  at 
the  speaker. 

The  two  men  leaned  against  the  marble 
breastwork  thrown  up  in  the  hall  of  the 
great  hotel  that  the  clerks  might  not  be  over 
run  by  invading  hordes.  Servants  came  and 
went,  arriving  and  departing  travellers  jostled 
one  another  in  their  eagerness.  Those  who 
sought  guests,  and  guests  themselves,  at 
tacked  the  office  with  ceaseless  and  varied 
demands,  some  perhaps  asking  to  see  a  po 
tentate,  others  possibly  desiring  a  postage- 
stamp. 
5 


66  THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE 

It  was  a  characteristic  night  in  the  thronged 
corridors  and  crowded  rooms.  Thousands — 
fortunes,  perhaps — were  made  or  lost  in  the 
quick  utterance  of  short  words.  Hopes,  am 
bitions,  found  then  and  there  happy  issue  or 
paralyzing  defeat.  A  man,  master  of  world- 
craft,  might  laugh  with  light  or  bitter  sar 
casm,  as  was  his  temperament  or  his  mood, 
as  he  looked  upon  those  who  met  and  talked 
together,  or  who  sat  or  stood  separately 
around.  He  would  know,  for  it  was  in  the 
air,  that  the  future  even  of  a  political  party 
depended  largely  upon  the  action  of  a  score 
or  more  of  its  managers  gathered  in  the 
house  that  night.  A  half-dozen  men,  whose 
sleight  of  management  was  with  as  many 
counties,  laughed  at  the  turns  of  speech  of 
another,  who  thought  he  manipulated  a  state, 
while  they  awaited  the  expected  appearance 
of  a  man  of  national  reputation  who  in 
tended  to  "capture"  all  of  them.  A  rumor 
flitted  about,  like  a  bat  in  a  twilight  room, 
that  it  was  suspected  by  the  knowing  that 
before  midnight  a  plan  would  reach  its 
golden  acme — a  plan  by  which  all  the  pro 
ducers  of  one  of  the  country's  great  products 
would  finally  unite  in  a  long- desired,  long- 


THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE  67 

unattainable  "trust,"  the  obdurate  and  recal 
citrant  manufacturer,  without  whose  concur 
rence  all  was  impracticable,  having  finally 
yielded  to  the  irrefragable  logic  of  necessity. 
In  the  afternoon  there  had  been  one  of  the 
usual  flurries  in  the  "street."  Zenith  and 
Nadir  preferred  had  gone  off  three  points, 
and  brokers  slid  about  with  whisper,  glance, 
and  shrug,  wondering  whether  a  thrill  of  sym 
pathetic  depression  would  tingle  along  the 
stock  of  competing  lines.  Lawyers,  editors, 
noted  and  powerful, were  there;  millionaires, 
arch-millionaires,  whose  wealth  made  them 
world-famous,  were  in  the  throng.  Not  only 
the  city's  habitual  dwellers  were  to  be  seen, 
but  many  parts  of  the  country  had  sent 
worthy  representatives  to  this  chaotic  con 
gress.  Silent  and  self-contained  owners  of 
plantations  in  Louisiana  chatted  with  alert, 
restless  men  whose  wealth  lay  in  the  dark 
and  odorous  forests  of  Maine.  A  mining 
expert  from  Colorado,  panegyrizing  the 
stock  of  a  silver  company  risen,  so  to 
speak,  from  the  lode  that  day,  walked  up 
and  down  between  two  rigorously  dressed, 
smooth-shaven  capitalists  from  Massachu 
setts.  Ranchmen  from  the  prairies,  almost 


68  THE   WOMAN  IN   THE   CASE 

awkwardly  inert  just  then,  and  evidently  the 
men  they  really  could  be  only  where  there 
were  scope  and  air  and  action,  talked  with  prim 
and  pragmatical  business  men  from  Manhat 
tan's  "  Swamp."  Here  and  there  a  quiet  pro 
vincial,  with  unacknowledged  longing  for 
his  home,  gazed  silently  upon  individuals, 
groups,  the  crowd,  and  wondered  if  he  could 
really  like  what  he  thought  he  saw.  Now  a 
messenger  boy  hurried  out ;  now  a  telegraph 
boy,  hastening  in,  handed  a  despatch  over 
the  counter — a  despatch  that  might  mean 
so  very  much,  so  very  little.  The  incessant 
tramp — not  breaking  silence,  but  crushing  it 
as  if  into  atoms  under  foot — mingled  with 
the  unceasing  grind,  the  suppressed  roar,  of 
the  wheels  in  near  and  in  distant  streets. 

Alston's  inattention  to  all  around  grew 
even  deeper.  His  companion  stood  gather 
ing  the  ragged  end  of  his  moustache  between 
his  teeth,  biting  it  vigorously.  It  was  easy 
to  see  that,  though  apparently  for  the 
moment  lost  in  thought,  he  was  struggling 
towards  some  resolution.  His  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  a  large  mirror  that  seemed  to 
open  up  a  vista  of  other  lighted  halls,  filled 
with  other  clustering  or  hurrying  men.  Then 


the  deep,  shadowed  lines  in  his  face  grew 
thinner,  straighter,  as  if  beneath  sudden  and 
stronger  tension,  and  he  turned  towards 
Alston  with  at  first  an  inarticulate  sound, 
too  unformed  for  an  oath,  too  raucous  for  a 
laugh — still  like  either,  but,  above  all,  fit  at 
once  to  arrest  attention  by  its  mocking  tone 
of  defiant  propitiation. 

"  I  say,  Alston,  I  want  to  celebrate  your 
return.  I  want  some  money,  I  want —  '  It 
was  evident  he  was  forcing  his  recklessness 
to  a  point  where  it  might  give  way.  "  I  must 
do  this  occasion  honor.  I  want  to  drink  your 
health.  I  am  particular  about  my  drinks ; 
a  man  must  be  particular  about  something 
or  he'll  lose  his  self-respect.  I  want  to  drink 
your  health  at  one  particular  place — a  place 
where  they  know  me,  perhaps  not  wisely,  but 
certainly  too  well.  But  there's  nothing  like 
a  money  difference  to  keep  men  apart.  I've 
had  their  liquids  and  I  haven't  liquidated. 
Lend  me — ' 

Alston  turned  upon  him  with  a  look  that 
was  a  peremptory  stop,  a  sentinel's  challenge 
to  one  about  setting  foot  on  prohibited 
ground.  The  last  speaker  glanced  furtively 
up,  checked  himself  abruptly,  and,  with  sud- 


70  THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE 

den  confusion,  his  forced  effrontery  came  to 
a  momentary  end.  Again  he  gathered  his 
moustache  between  his  teeth,  gnawing  it 
savagely,  and  brushed  a  particle  of  dust 
from  the  sleeve  of  his  perfectly  fitting  coat. 
It  was  an  obstinate  particle;  it  required 
some  embarrassing  seconds  for  its  removal, 
and  then  the  eyes  of  the  men  met,  but  only 
in  instantaneous  encounter.  They  were 
young  men,  neither  over  thirty-five;  Alston, 
perhaps  from  his  heavier  figure  and  broader 
shoulders,  apparently  the  older  of  the  two ; 
'both  evidently  in  the  full  vigor  of  manhood; 
both  men  with  every  aspect  full  of  that  in 
describable  significance  that  belongs  only  to 
one  who  has  had  something  far  more  than 
the  usual  life,  who  has  undergone  much  and 
lived  all  through  it,  without  the  weakening 
of  a  muscle  or  the  lessening  of  a  faculty. 
For  a  moment  Alston  stood  silently  look 
ing  at  his  companion — looking  at  him  with 
the  questioning,  long -practised  look  \vith 
which  experience  so  quickly  sums  up,  so 
to  speak,  the  human  column  that  stands  be 
fore  it. 

"Trego,"    he    said  —  and   there   was   con 
tempt,  wonder,  pity,  perhaps  a  touch  of  tri- 


THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE  71 

umph  even,  in  that  one  word — "Trego,  come 
up  to  my  room.  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

Alston  turned  without  waiting  for  reply, 
and  moved  towards  the  main  stairway.  Trego, 
not  in  reluctance,  but  only  instinctively,  paus 
ing  that  he  might  the  better  gather  into  com 
prehensible  compass  all  that  the  unexpected 
meeting,  the  strangely  different  fortunes  of 
the  two,  the  past,  and  the  outlook  for  the 
future  brought  in  mingled  confusion  to  his 
half-consciousness,  stood  motionless  for  an 
instant,  and  then  with  hurried  step  caught 
up  with  Alston,  already  half-way  across  the 
hall,  and  slipped  his  hand  familiarly  over  his 
arm. 

"Ah,  Alston,"  he  said,  "there's  nothing 
like  having  been  boys  together." 

Alston  half  drew  away. 

Without  another  word  they  mounted  the 
marble  stairs. 

"They  seem  to  know  you,"  said  Trego,  in 
a  tone  of  jarring,  significant  jocularity,  pain 
ful  to  Alston's  ear,  as  they  entered  the  room. 
"  They've  lodged  you  well.  I  don't  believe 
they  missed  a  single  million  when  they  took 
your  measure  for  these  rooms.  I  see  the 
railroad  president  in  the  heavy  hangings. 


72  THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE 

I  tread  on  traces  of  a  dozen  directorships  in 
big  corporations  when  I  walk  on  these  car 
pets.  There  is  not  even  a  chair  in  which 
I  cannot  detect  the  essential  rich  man. 
Everywhere  I  see  that  devil-on-two-sticks, 
the  dollar-mark." 

It  was  merely  the  main  room  of  a  suite  of 
apartments  in  the  huge  hotel  reserved  for 
guests  distinguished  worthily,  or  perhaps 
sometimes  unworthily,  from  their  kind — a 
room  not  like  so  many  where  provision  for 
comfort  is  so  apparent  as  to  make  all  uncom 
fortable  ;  where  colors  are  in  confusion  with 
out  blending  tone;  splendor  in  its  new 
clothes;  a  strike,  a  riot  of  upholstery,  which 
even  assuaging  shadows  cannot  quell.  Never 
theless,  it  was  a  place  to  which  no  human 
creature  could  ever  be  bound  by  the  gradu 
ally  tightening  bonds  of  daily  association — a 
place  which  retained  no  more  personal  im 
press  from  any  of  the  hundreds  that  it  had 
harbored  than  its  mirrors  had  retained  trace 
of  the  changing  forms  they  had  reflected. 

Alston  turned  up  the  gas  already  lighted, 
and  threw  himself  with  decisive  action  into 
one  of  the  large  arm-chairs. 

"Sit  down,  Trego,"  he  almost  commanded, 


THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE  73 

pointing  to  another.  "Sit  down;  I've  some 
thing  to  say  to  you." 

Trego  had  really  lost  nothing  of  the  de 
fiant  assurance  that  had  for  a  moment  appar 
ently  deserted  him,  an  assurance  evidently 
the  result  of  exertion  so  painful  that  his 
assumed  airiness  of  language  and  ease  of 
manner  were  almost  ghastly  in  their  unnatu- 
ralness — ghastly  as  is  the  flutter,  the  invol 
untary  twitch,  following  sudden  animal  death. 

Silently,  and  a  little  sullenly,  he  took  the 
seat  to  which  Alston  pointed. 

"I  didn't  think,"  said  Alston,  "that  you 
had  come  to  this." 

"  Nor  have  I,"  answered  Trego,  instantly. 
"  It's  all  come  to  me.  I  might  say  that  I 
haven't  come  to  anything.  It  would  be  the 
strict  truth." 

"  No  jesting,"  said  Alston,  sternly.  "I've 
a  reason  for  asking.  How  do  you  live?" 

"  I  might  tell  you  it  was  none  of  your 
business,"  answered  the  other.  "  But  I 
don't.  It's  seldom  I  can  afford  such  luxury. 
You  might  feel  insulted.  I  live  on  my  wits. 
They  don't  quote  such  stock  in  the  market, 
but  it  pays  nevertheless — pays  something. 
But  there's  another  kind  that  pays  better, 


74  THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE 

it's  so  weak  and  well  watered — the  witless- 
ness  of  others." 

"  You  are  telling  me  the  truth  ?"  said 
Alston,  half  rising. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Trego.  "Truth  is  an 
other  delicacy  I  can't  afford,  but  to-night  I 
feel  extravagant.  I  waste  my  substance  on 
a  returning  friend." 

Alston  drew  his  chair  slightly  nearer  the 
speaker. 

"To  be  fair  with  myself,"  Trego  began, 
"I  am  not  generally  as  low  as  this.  It's 
neap  tide  with  me,  and  my  life  shows  the 
slime  and  the  ooze  and  the  crawling  things. 
I've  a  most  irregularly  regular  occupation,  a 
most  unlearned  profession,  requiring  a  man 
to  know  everything.  I  am  "--and  then 
some  humorous  recollection  or  some  gro 
tesque  turn  of  thought  gave  the  first  real 
ring  of  merriment  to  his  voice — "I  am  an 
empirical  philosopher;  peripatetic,  and  with 
such  places  as  these  for  my  groves,  my  por 
ticos.  I  am  a  psychological  expert.  I  pro 
fess  human  nature  in  all  its  branches.  I  am 
about  to  issue  abusiness  card : '  William  Trego, 
Guide,  Philosopher,  and  Friend.  Address, 
care  of  the  Devil,  No.  I,  The  Broad  Road.'" 


THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE  75 

"Trego,"  interrupted  Alston,  with  per 
emptory  impatience,  "what  do  you  do?" 

"Practise  a  liberal  art — liberal  if  it  only 
paid  better." 

He  glanced  quickly  at  Alston  before  he 
resumed. 

"As  fortune  failed,"  he  went  on — "and  it 
soon  did — I  felt  I  must  be  practical.  I  de 
voted  myself  to  the  study  of  that  sufficiently 
unnatural  branch  of  natural  history — human 
ity.  Perplexing,  isn't  it,  there's  so  much  of 
human  nature  in  man,  so  little  of  the  man  in 
human  nature  ?  I  found  myself  hard  pressed. 
Something  oust  be  done.  I  had  read  or 
thought — perhaps  I  thought  it — that  if  a  man 
could  supply  one  of  the  ordinary  needs  of 
mankind  in  a  more  satisfactory  way  than  did 
any  other,  he  might  be  assured  of  fortune. 
What  could  I  do?  Supplying  appetites  was 
overworked;  very  accommodating  millions 
were  quite  busy  doing  a  good  many  things 
about  people's  necessities.  Really,  I  didn't 
want  to  disturb  so  many  worthy  persons  by 
setting  up  the  same  kind  of  shop.  Were 
there  any  other  demands?  Curiosity  and 
vanity,  untiring,  insatiate.  Here  were  un 
bounded  wants.  Could  I  bring  to  market 


76  THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE 

delicacies,  in  season  or  out,  never  before 
offered?  The  press  had  partly  anticipated 
me,  but  there  was  much  to  which  that  alto 
gether  lovely  thing,  'personal  journalism/ 
had  not  given  type.  I  could  beat  the  news 
papers,  I  thought,  and  I  have  done  it.  I  am 
ringmaster  in  the  world's  great  though  single- 
ringed  circus  of  performing  animals." 

The  sudden  light  of  merriment  that  had 
danced  before  each  sentence  as  he  went  on 
sank  as  sinks  the  will-o'-the-wisp,  as  he 
stopped  for  a  moment,  abandoning  his  face 
to  an  expression  as  lack-lustre  and  repel 
ling  as  before.  The  smile  stiffened  and  his 
lips  tightened  in  his  usual  expression  of  light 
scornfulness. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Alston,  exas 
perated  by  what  seemed  to  him  a  display  of 
extravagant  nonsense. 

"Mean?"  said  Trego,  the  underlying  bit 
terness  edging  every  word  with  spiteful  tone. 
"I'll  tell  yo«  what  I  mean.  Suppose  your 
self  some  mere  ravelling  from  civilization's 
untrimmed  edge,  some  sober  thread  pulled 
from  the  warp  or  woof  of  provincial  life;  sup 
pose  yourself  one  of  human  nature's  tolerably 
well-meaning  creatures,  alone  in  this  consid- 


THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE  77 

erable  city,  anxious  to  see  the  world,  with 
out  insurmountable  objection  to  the  flesh, 
and  not  so  terribly  averse  to  that  gentleman 
whose  reputation  improves  every  day — the 
devil.  Would  it  satisfy  you  to  see  parks, 
buildings,  libraries,  galleries?  Wouldn't  it 
depreciate  you  with  yourself  a  little  that  you 
didn't  see  more,  where  you  knew  there  was 
so  much  more  to  be  seen?  Of  course  it 
would.  You  would  rather  lounge  at  the 
side-scenes  than  sit  with  the  audience.  To 
know  a  city  is  more  than  to  know  a  science 
or  another  language  than  your  own,  and  it 
takes  much  more  time.  I  know  this  city. 
I  give  gentlemen  seeking  knowledge  the 
benefit  of  what  I  know — for  a  consideration. 
I  am  a  Mentor  in  a  moustache  to  any  Te- 
lemachus,  white-bearded  or  otherwise.  You 
jostle  against  a  man  in  the  street,  and,  if  it 
were  not  for  me,  you  would  not  know  that 
he  bore  a  name  that  is  a  household  word.  I 
point  out  the  man  of  awe-inspiring  millions ; 
the  politician,  who  drops,  on  sight,  from  his 
apotheosis;  the  great  actor,  on  the  pavement 
so  very  unlike  himself  as  he  walked  down 
the  stage  last  night ;  the  gentleman  who 
drives  a  successful  trade  in  parts  of  speech, 


78  THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE 

English  warranted  to  go,  and.  who  sells  his 
phrases  to  be  put  in  print;  the  quite  aberrant 
man,  astray  from  the  commands  of  the  dec 
alogue,  the  prohibitions  of  the  statutes,  who 
might  be  in  prison  if  others  did  not  fear  to 
go  there  too;  notorieties;  celebrities;  wor 
thies  and  unworthies ;  philanthropists;  crim 
inals  ;  mezzo-malefactors,  gay  enough  to 
catch  the  public  eye — I  show  them  all,  all 
the  performers  in  my  raree-show,  performers 
who  furnish  their  own  wardrobes  and  support 
themselves,  playing  among  properties  cer 
tainly  not  mine,  every  one  a  star.  I  am  ready 
to  meet  all  requirements.  I  furnish  gratifica 
tion  for  the  moment,  and  I  do  more — I  sup 
ply  a  lasting  pleasure.  I  enable  my  patrons 
to  make  their  neighbors  and  friends  miser 
able,  as  they  recount,  in  rural  quiet,  adven 
tures  such  as  have  never  come  within  such 
simple  experience.  Would  you  like,"  he 
added,  mockingly,  "to  see  what  there  is  in 
town,  Mr.  Alston?" 

"Trego,"  said  the  other,  severely,  "are you 
telling  me  the  truth?" 

"Truth,  not  the  whole  truth,  but  some 
thing  very  like  the  truth,"  answered  Trego, 
in  the  tone  of  one  administering  an  oath. 


THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE  79 

"You  mean  that  you  are — " 

"I  mean  nothing,"  said  Trego,  suddenly 
and  almost  fiercely  starting  into  assumed 
dignity.  "  But  if  you  think  I  am  more  in  a 
mood  for  jesting  than  you  are,  Harry  Alston, 
you  are  mistaken.  You  mistake  " — and  for  an 
instant  he  remembered  himself,  but  at  once 
was  lost  again  in  the  rattling,  gibing  tone — 
"  the  sound  of  the  fool's-cap  bells.  If  you 
think  it  was  an  easy  thing,  a  bearable  thing, 
for  me,  remembering  what  I  was,  to  ask  you, 
remembering  what  you  were  and  recognizing 
what  you  are,  to  lend  me  money,  you  think  me 
worse  than  I  think  myself.  Your  plummet 
sounds  —  swings  in  an  abyss  deeper,  wider, 
darker  than  any  to  which  I  have  sunk." 

"  Why,  then,  did  you  attempt  it?" 

"  I  am  talking  to-night  as  I  never  expected 
to  talk  again.  I'll  tell  you  even  that.  I  did 
it — strange,  isn't  it? — from  self-respect." 

"From  self-respect?" 

"  Those  who  have  always  held  the  straight 
way  know  but  little  of  the  tricks  perverted 
nature  plays  us  in  the  crooked.  Had  I,  at 
the  sight  of  you,  found  myself  so  far  re 
moved  from  what  I  thought  myself  as  to 
forego  an  act  to  which  I  supposed  I  had 


8o  THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE 

been  long  since  hardened,  I  should  have  been 
shaken  in  that  strength  of  stolid  indifference, 
cultivated  and  at  last  attained,  which  has 
become  my  best  protection  from  shame  and 
remorse.  It  is  as  unsettling  to  skilled,  con 
sistent,  useful  depravity  to  admit  a  good 
impulse  as  for  an  honest  man  to  yield  to  a 
bad  one." 

"  And  you  have  done  a  shameful  thing  to 
prove  to  yourself  that  you  were  strong 
enough — or  weak  enough — to  act  as  if  wholly 
lost  to  shame." 

"Yes." 

As  he  answered  he  looked  up  defiantly, 
and  his  almost  convulsive  grasp,  tightening 
on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  was  all  that  showed 
consciousness  of  his  situation. 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute,  broken 
only  by  Alston's  scarcely  audible  step  on  the 
thick  carpet. 

"  Trego,"  said  Alston  at  last,  "  I  will  be 
even  more  frank  than  you.  I  shall  speak  of 
much  that  you  know;  but  when  I  have  said 
what  I  shall  say,  you  will  understand  why 
I  have  said  it." 

Trego  silently  bowed. 

"  Boyhood,"  continued  Alston,  "  is  no  time 


THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE  81 

for  friendship ;  companionship  is  all  it  really 
knows.  We  were  companions  —  nothing 
more,  nothing  less ;  but  as  we  grew  older — 
let  me  be  frank  —  as  each  gathered  to  him 
self  those  many  things  that  made  character 
what  it  is,  we  did  not  like  each  other.  It 
was  hardly  hatred,  possibly  only  instinctive 
aversion  arising  from  the  repugnance  of  in 
congruous,  irreconcilable  dissimilarity ;  a  feel 
ing,  however,  at  last  given  intensity  by  that 
hostile  instinct  that  comes  to  all  male  things 
at  such  time  as  came  to  us  when  you  were 
to  marry  Mary  Hayden." 

Again  Trego  bowed  his  head ;  now,  how 
ever,  with  more  emphatic  assent. 

"  But  I  will  go  back  a  little,"  Alston  went 
on.  "  You  remember  Class  Day.  It  is  a 
day  when  in  sudden  kindliness  men  say 
things  that  sometimes  they  do  not  and  some 
times  will  not  remember.  If  ever  there  was 
a  time  to  stand  by  every  inference  even  a 
friend  might  then  draw,  it  is  now." 

''You  are  generous,"  said  Trego. 

"  I  am  not.     We  did  not  think  then  who 
would  give  or  take.    We  will  not  now.     Per 
haps    you    can  give    me   much — more    per 
haps  than  I  can  give  you." 
6 


82  THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE 

«  j " 

"  Do  not  speak.  I  barely  got  my  degree; 
they  gave  you  honors  —  whether  you  de 
served  them  or  not  doesn't  matter  now. 
Then  trouble  came  to  me  —  ruin  they  called 
it — the  consequence  of  squandered  time,  of 
qualities,  merits  perhaps  if  only  differently 
directed.  You  may  have  gloried  in  my  fail 
ure — I  do  not  know.  I,  if  it  had  been  oth 
erwise,  might  have  gloried  in  yours — I  do 
not  know.  I  was  disgraced,  and  then,  when 
all  thought  me  lost — then  there  came  to  me 
that  weakness  that  was  my  only  strength. 
I  dared  not  ask  Mary  Hayden  to  marry  me 
— I — but  you — then  I  must  have  hated  you 
— you,  rich,  unassailably  respectable,  skilful 
in  the  pretty,  petty  ways  of  what  is  called 
society,  easily  master  of  that  indescribable 
grace  of  manner  and  flexibility  of  speech 
that,  more  than  wealth  or  reputation  or 
personal  attractiveness,  win  their  way  with 
women ;  you  plying  light  arts  in  piqued  per 
sistence  ;  affecting  humility,  yet  stealing  an 
upward  look  to  see  whether  the  affectation 
would  not  give  you  vantage  enough  to 
push  a  ready,  careful  foot  another  line's 
breadth  in  approach — you — you  murmured 


THE  WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE  83 

and  laughed,  and  at  last,  filling  a  presence 
into  which  I  was  too  little  or  too  much  of 
a  man  to  step,  you  won.  I  hated  you  then, 
Trego,  and  in  such  a  nature  as  mine  I  do 
not  believe  such  hatred  wholly  dies  out. 
But  I  will  help  you  if — if — in  such  act  I  can 
repay  in  smallest  fraction  anything  of  what 
I  owe — to  another." 

Alston  paused,  as  if  hoping  that  Trego 
might  say  something,  but  the  other  sat  silent. 
With  slow,  firm  step  Alston  approached  him, 
and  for  a  moment  stood  silent  himself  be 
fore  the  silent  man. 

"  If  you  knew  how  I  loved  her,"  he  con 
tinued,  "you  might  not  listen  to  me.  I 
loved  her  as  a  strong  man,  not  yet  wholly 
lost,  loves  the  marvel  of  earth,  a  good 
woman ;  loved  her  as  a  man  almost  lost,  a 
man  not  unfamiliar  with  evil,  can  love  the 
woman  who  represents  to  him  all  that  there 
is  of  good — for  dull  inexperience  can.  never 
have  true  appreciation  of  the  full  beauty  of 
such  pure,  high,  gracious  rectitude.  I  heard 
of  your  engagement.  Calamity — her  loss — 
neither  sunk  me  in  despair  nor  roused  me 
into  anger.  All  only  braced  me — it  seemed 
strange  to  me  then,  it  seems  stranger  to  me 


84  THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE 

now — with  strength  concentrated  in  vigorous 
capability ;  every  faculty,  all  that  I  was,  was 
bent  towards  the  attainment  of  that  wealth 
and  power  that  best  attest  success  to  the 
world." 

Alston  paused  for  an  instant. 

"  I  have  lived  a  dozen  lives  in  the  last  ten 
years,"  he  resumed.  "A  man  finds  easy  field 
for  it  beyond  the  Mississippi.  I  have  known 
mere  manual  toil — months,  years  of  it — in 
the  very  midst  of  all  that  was  squalid,  vi 
cious,  vile.  I  have  lived  years  when  I  gave 
up  every  minute,  every  power,  to  that  unre 
mitting  labor  absolutely  necessary  to  the 
seizure  of  opportunity,  to  the  control  of  cir 
cumstances,  the  mastery  of  men.  Courage, 
firmness,  continued  endeavor,  strength  in  its 
fulness,  and  more,  are  necessary  to  win  all 
that  I  have  won  in  the  last  ten  years.  But 
I  feel  no  touch  of  vanity.  I  know  too  well 
what  we  all  are,  and  how  weak  the  strongest 
is.  I  know  that  even  with  such  strength  as 
mine,  unaided,  I  should  perhaps  have  attained 
little.  Mere  integrity,  industry,  intensity  of 
purpose,  would  not  have  been  enough  for 
me ;  for  men  are  busy,  and  expediency,  im 
patience  in  accomplishment,  many  things, 


THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE  85 

hasten  or  persuade  men  into  doing  what  they 
otherwise  might  not  have  done.  But  if  ever 
there  is  present  one  noble  idea,  if  there  stands 
before  the  mind's  eye  a  personality,  living, 
breathing,  of  humankind,  though  seemingly 
above  it,  whose  every  thought,  whose  whole 
being  is  purest,  best  —  yes,  and  most  beauti 
ful  ;  and  if  such  personality  is  loved,  wor 
shipped —  loved,  Trego  —  resent  it,  if  you 
dare,  for  I  speak  of  your  wife  —  then  comes 
knowledge  of  the  reality,  the  power  of  all 
things  good ;  then  for  him  who  so  loves 
there  is  a  rule  ever  present,  ever  strong  to 
control  evil,  to  restrain  passion,  quick  to 
mould  and  direct  character,  acts,  career.  So 
my  ten  years  of  life  have  been  shaped.  The 
cunning  of  a  doctrine,  the  stress  of  a  moral 
ist,  the  dogmatism  of  a  creed,  would  have 
been  to  me  as  nothing.  I  was  subdued, 
governed  by  the  idea  of  one  beautiful  life. 
It  is  the  serene  life  lived  nearly  two  thousand 
years  ago  that  to-day  gives  our  religion  pre 
vailing  actuality — the  serene  life  of  the  sad 
Man  without  laughter.  I  hold  but  the  half- 
fearful,  half-hopeful  credence  of  so  many  in 
these  days.  But  there  is  one  devotion  that 
always  has  had,  always  will  have,  strong 


86  THE   WOMAN    IN   THE   CASE 

appeal  to  my  better  self — the  worship  of  the 
Madonna.  With  an  awe  that  would  soften 
to  tenderness  if  reverence  did  not  restrain,  I 
found  my  shrine,  I  worshipped  my  Madonna. 
I  regulated  my  life  by  what  I  supposed,  had 
she  known  my  acts  and  all  that  surrounded 
them,  Mary  Hayden  would  have  thought 
worthy  of  a  man  true  to  himself.  I  found 
an  absolutely  adequate  and  unfailing  rule  of 
conduct.  I  submitted  every  plan,  every 
proposed  act,  to  this  test — would  she  ap 
prove  if  she  knew  all  ?  And  more,  would  I 
shrink  from  telling  her  ?  There  was  my 
safety.  The  thought  that  I  might  so  shrink 
aroused  alarm ;  some  baseness  must  lurk 
somewhere.  It  was  enough.  I  did  nothing 
that  I  would  not  gladly  have  told  her  had  I 
been  permitted  to  seek  her  guidance — a  guid 
ance  that  I  do  not  believe,  Trego,  you  have 
followed." 

Trego  started. 

"  See  here,  Alston,"  he  exclaimed,  "  have 
you — how  much  do  you  believe  a  man  will — 
can  bear?" 

"  Sit  still  and  hear  me  out,"  said  Alston. 
"This  simple  rule,"  he  continued,  "this  sim 
ple  method — this,  more  than  what  I  was,  has 


THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE  87 

made  me  what  I  am,  master  of  circumstance 
and  of  myself ;  has  given  me  all  that  I  pos 
sess —  wealth,  power,  the  confidence  of  men. 
It  is  as  unfailing  now  when  —  I  am  at 
tempting  to  do  mere  justice  to  her,  not 
flattering  myself — when  I  am  the  first  man 
in  my  State — as  when  all  that  I  had  to  resist 
was  the  push  of  an  appetite,  or  the  persua 
sion  of  the  chance  of  small  gain.  No  mat 
ter  how  complicated  the  circumstances,  my 
rule  never  fails  me.  Motives  are  dexterous 
in  specious  pretences,  but  what  would  she 
say — she,  who,  not  knowing  all  that  men 
know,  would  yet  know  infinitely  more?  All 
else  has  been  nothing,  and  is  nothing,  com 
pared  with  the  thought  of  her.  That  thought 
has  been  my  strength,  my  test,  my  restraint, 
my  impulsion.  It  is  the  vital  point  around 
which  my  life  gathers — the  nucleus  of  what 
otherwise  would  be  unsustained,  unformed, 
empty.  Life  without  this  reality  would  be 
objectless,  scattered,  void.  Trego,  under 
stand  me.  I  did  not  expect  to  know  any 
thing  so  soon.  That  I  would  have  sought 
information  of  her  and  of  you  before  I  re 
turned  is  true.  Our  meeting  here  to-night 
is,  of  course,  purely  accidental.  Had  I  found 


88  THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE 

you  holding  the  place  the  world  expected 
of  you — that  she  expected  of  you — I  would 
have  said  nothing.  I  would  have  gone,  and 
neither  of  you  would  have  seen  me.  But  I 
have  not  found  you  occupying  such  position. 
I  find  you  resorting  to  an  expedient,  to  say 
the  least  of  it,  questionable,  even  if  neces 
sary  to  the  earning  of  your  livelihood.  I  ask 
you — and,  remembering  what  Mary  Hayden 
has  unconsciously  done  for  me,  I  have  the 
right  of  a  more  than  grateful  man  to  ask  it 
— what  have  you  done  for  her?  Has  she 
suffered  ?  has  she  been  in  want  ?  does  she 
suffer?  is  she  in  want  now?  Have  you  been 
as  false  to  the  promises  that  you  made  to 
her  as  you  have  to  the  promises  you  gave 
the  world  ?" 

"  Had  any  other  man  spoken  as  you 
speak,"  said  Trego,  hoarsely,  "he  would  suf 
fer  for  it." 

"  Not  if  he  spoke  as  I  speak,"  answered 
Alston  quietly,  almost  solemnly.  "  Not  if 
he  spoke  with  such  a  motive  as  mine.  There 
is  no  remedy  for  the  past.  We  can  mend 
the  present.  We  must  assure  the  future. 
We  cannot  do  that  properly  if  every  word 
is  not  the  plain,  severe  truth.  What  would 


THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE  8g 

Mary  Hayden  say  that  I  should  do  now  if 
she  knew  all?" 

Trego  did  not  answer. 

Both  had  been  silent  for  some  minutes 
when  there  came  a  rap  at  the  door.  Neither 
gave  it  attention,  and  Alston  continued  his 
walk. 

The  knock  was  repeated. 

"  There  is  some  one  at  the  door,"  said  Trego. 

"  Come  in,"  commanded  Alston. 

A  servant  entered  with  a  card. 

"  I  must  see  him,"  said  Alston,  after  he 
had  taken  it  and  glanced  at  the  name  it 
bore.  "  He  is  here  in  answer  to  my  despatch. 
I  will  be  gone  but  for  a  moment.  Wait 
here ;  I  will  meet  him  in  the  next  room." 

He  drew  a  heavily  wrought  porttire  aside 
and  passed  through  the  doorway. 

Trego  did  not  leave  his  chair.  He  glanced 
at  Alston  as  he  disappeared;  then,  after  a 
moment  of  irresolution,  he  drew  a  letter  from 
his  pocket  and  spread  it  out  upon  his  knee, 
carefully  smoothing  down  its  creases  and 
turning  back  its  crumpled  edges. 

He  nervously  glanced  about  the  room  as 
if  he  were  fearful  that  some  one  might  see 
what  it  contained. 


90  THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE 

"  If  I  were  the  man  he  thinks  I  am — if  I 
were  the  man  I  thought  myself — I  would  do 
it,"  he  muttered.  "  I  could  shake  the  foun 
dation  of  his  self-satisfied  assurance.  I 
could  make  him  feel  something  of  what  I 
have  suffered.  Hates  me,  does  he?  I  hate 
him.  Why?  How  has  he  hurt  me?  As 
success  always  hurts  him  who  has  failed. 
Because  he  can — dare — offer  me  aid.  But — 
shall  I  do  him  this  harm  ?  Shall  I  deprive 
him  of  that,  in  losing  which  he  says  he 
would  lose  all  ?  Rich  as  he  is,  shall  I  make 
him  poorer  than  I  am  ?  Shall  I  rob  him  of 
his  illusion — of  his  reality?  Because  the 
coin  is  counterfeit,  shall  I  take  it  from  him  ? 
And  still,  he  hates  me,  and  I — " 

Bending  low  and  with  difficulty  making 
out  the  faint  and  blotted  lines  scrawled  on 
the  coarse  paper,  without  date  or  intimation 
of  place,  he  read  : 

"DEAR  BILLY, —  When  in  my  first  love-letter  I 
so  wrote  your  name  it  was  with  something  of  the 
timidity  with  which  I  write  it  now,  and  yet  how 
different  the  feeling !  Then  I  wrote  with  joyous 
satisfaction,  with  shrinking,  girlish  glee;  now  I 
write  in  shame,  and  now  I  am  afraid.  I  did  not 
think  then  that,  as  a  broken-hearted  woman,  borne 


THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE  91 

down  with  the  sense  of  all  that  she  has  done,  I  should 
write  to  you,  unworthy  of  forgiveness  as  I  am,  and 
only  daring  to  use  that  name  that  I  may  ask  you 
to  remember  what  I  once  was  to  you — what  I  once 
really  was.  I  cannot  live  long,  Billy,  they  tell  me, 
and  it  is  really  all  that  I  can  do  to  write  this  letter. 
I  may  die  to-night,  and  I  may  live  longer,  and  with 
something  of  my  old  strength ;  but  the  time  will 
soon  come  when  all  that  will  be  left  of  Mary  Hayden 
will  be  a  bitter  memory  in  the  mind  of  the  man 
she  loved  with  all  the  strength  of  which  she  was 
ever  capable.  For  I  have  always  loved  you,  Billy, 
in  my  way.  All  the  time  that  I  clogged  your  every 
effort,  all  the  time  I  slowly  but  surely  dragged  you 
down,  I  loved  you — always  in  my  way  —  slight, 
perhaps,  but  still  outlasting  everything  else.  At  the 
yery  last  I  loved  you,  strange  as  it  may  seem  and 
hard  as  it  is  to  be  believed.  What  I  did  was  through 
flattered  vanity  and  the  need,  fierce  as  an  opium 
eater's,  for  things  —  trifles,  yet  so  much  to  me  — 
which  with  only  our  narrowing  means  I  could  not 
have.  But  I  did  so  like  pretty  things,  gayety,  joy, 
abundance  of  bright  life.  Even  the  night  when  I 
went  away,  unnatural  as  it  may  seem,  I  remember 
thinking  how  much  nicer  it  would  be  if  you  were 
going  with  us.  It  is  absurd  to  have  thought  it  at 
such  a  time,  but  I  wanted  you  to  go  too — I  really 
did.  I  was  not  bad,  Billy,  I  was  not.  I  never  could 
quite  see,  feel,  things  as  others  did ;  I  believe  I  never 
had  what  they  call  a  moral  sense.  But  I  am  not 
attempting  a  vindication.  I  only  wish  before  I  die 


92  THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE 

to  tell  you  the  truth,  to  tell  you  the  remorse  I  feel 
for  what  I  have  done  to  you.  I  have  ruined  you, 
and  I  know  it.  You  would  have  been  a  good  man, 
perhaps  a  great  man,  if  it  had  not  been  for  me. 

"  Everybody  I  once  knew,  for  whom  I  cared,  thinks 
me  dead — every  one  but  you.  It  was  the  least  I 
could  do,  after  leaving  you,  to  help  you  in  the  de 
ception.  And  it  is  the  bitter  truth  that  I  am  dead. 
Every  hope,  every  joy  that  belonged  to  Mary  Hay- 
den  has  passed  away.  I  am  not  what  I  was — a 
woman  yet  to  suffer,  but  dead  to  you,  and  dead  to 
all  once  so  very  pleasant,  so  very  dear.  And  I  do 
not  tell  you  what  I  suffer.  I  believe  even  now  it 
would  give  you  pain  could  you  know,  and  I  am 
silent.  If  the  girl  you  married  could  cling  to  your 
heart  one  moment  —  sin  and  suffering  have  left  her 
a  woman  even  yet,  and  she  would  not  hurt  the 
man  she  loved  —  agony  could  not  wring  from  her 
even  one  murmur.  It  may  come,  for  you  have  not 
succeeded  in  the  world,  and  suffering  explains  so 
much,  softens  so  much,  teaches  us  to  pardon  so 
much :  it  may  come — some  moment  of  tenderness 
at  thought  of  some  little  thing ;  not  when  our  lips 
met,  for  such  thoughts  madden,  but  of  some  time 
when  my  hand  just  touched  your  arm  and  I  laughed 
up  in  your  face,  happy  in  mocking  caprice — some 
moment  of  tenderness  when  you  might  even  wish 
to  see  me.  But  do  not  seek  to  do  it.  I  long,  but  I 
could  not  bear  it,  Billy.  Could  you  ?  And  I  will 
not  tell  you  where  I  am. 

"  I  am  dead ;  and  if,  as  some  say,  remorse  is  the 


THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE  93 

punishment  that  awaits  our  sins  hereafter,  I  am  al 
ready  in  hell.  I  know  the  anguish  of  ineffectual 
repentance.  My  guilt  stands  out  in  all  its  naked 
hideousness,  without  any  of  the  palliations  with 
which  I  once  clothed  it,  and  I  recognize  the  evil  I 
have  always  been.  Do  you  think  that  He  will 
punish  us  that  way?  He  knows  we  are  women  and 
how  weak  we  are.  Is  it  just  that  the  weak  should 
suffer  most  ?  If  it  were  so,  annihilation  were  far 
kinder  than  a  merciful  Father.  If  we  sin,  how  much 
are  we  overtempted,  how  weak  to  withstand  temp 
tation  !  I  know  that  He  will  be  kind  to  us.  One 
of  us  was  the  mother  of  the  Child. 

"  I  can  hardly  write  any  more.  Why  I  have  writ 
ten  at  all,  I  have  told  you.  I  am  sorry.  That  is  all  I 
can  say.  If  you  can  feel  more  kindly  towards  me  be 
cause  I  feel  so  kindly  towards  you — she  who  I  was 
would  say  so  much  more  than  this — I  would  be 
glad.  But  do  not  seek  to  have  me  know  it.  I  shall 
soon  be  where,  if  it  be  possible  to  know  anything,  I 
shall  know  all,  and  if  one  does  not,  then  it  does  not 
matter. 

"  Good-bye,  Billy.  I  owe  you  the  happiest  and 
best  days  of  my  life,  and,  weak  creature  that  I  was, 
you  held  me  for  a  long  time  above  myself.  I  should 
like  to  feel  that  this  poor  letter  even  for  one  moment 
has  softened  you  towards  me,  and  so  made  some 
one  better — better  through  me,  who  have  made  so 
many  worse.  Good-bye.  I  am  sorry.  Good-bye. 

'•MARY." 


94  THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE 

He  ceased  reading  and  sat  resting  his  head 
upon  his  hand,  gathering  the  skin  of  his  fore 
head  between  his  fingers,  as  is  the  habit  of 
some  men  when  lost  in  thought. 

"  I  can't  do  it,"  he  muttered,  hoarsely. 
"I  would  not  darken  her  heaven;  I  would 
not  add  one  agony  to  her  hell.  It  might 
be  justification  of  myself,  revenge  upon 
him,  but — I  cannot  show  him  that  letter." 
He  paused,  then  quickly  continued  :  "  Per 
haps  there  is  some  good  left  in  me,  after 
all." 

He  was  so  absorbed  that  he  did  not  notice 
when  Alston  entered  the  room.  He  said 
nothing  to  him,  even  when  he  had  crossed 
the  floor  and  stood  silently  before  him. 

"  I  am  waiting  for  your  answer,"  said  Al 
ston. 

"  Wait,"  he  replied,  roughly. 

He  rose,  went  to  the  window  and  looked 
out.  The  evening  was  well  advanced,  but 
the  crowds  from  the  theatres,  soon  to  fill  the 
walks,  had  not  yet  appeared.  The  Square 
and  the  converging  streets  were  dismal, 
almost  slimy,  repulsive,  shining  as  they  were 
from  the  just  fallen  rain.  The  sharp  shadows 
made  by  the  electric  lights,  heavy  and  dis- 


THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE  95 

tinct  as  the  border  of  a  mourning  -  card, 
seemed  to  edge  everything — to  harden  what 
he  saw  into  greater  and  more  impressive  se 
verity. 

"  What  have  you  to  say  ?"  demanded  Alston. 

"  Nothing,"  replied  Trego. 

Then  he  turned,  faced  Alston  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  added: 

"  She  died  five  years  ago." 

Alston  stood  rigidly  erect. 

"Died!"  he  said;  "died — and  yet  it  is 
better  so.  But  stand  there — she  is  no  man's 
now.  I,  too,  have  my  rights.  Tell  me,  did 
she  die  before — did  she  know — " 

"  What  I  am?"  said  Trego,  fiercely.  "  Drop 
that.  You  had  better." 

"  I  will  know  the  truth." 

"  I  swear,  Henry  Alston,"  said  Trego,  in  a 
tone  that  dispelled  all  doubt — "  I  swear  that 
she  suffered  nothing  from  me.  I  swear  it 
to  you  by  all  that  there  is  left  to  me  to  hold 
sacred." 

"  And  I  believe  you,"  answered  Alston ; 
"  and  it  is  well  that  I  do.  If  I  did  not,  I 
would  shoot  you  down  where  you  stand." 

"  Possibly,"  said  Trego,  with  harsh,  rattling, 
enigmatical  laugh. 


96  THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE 

He  rose  and  moved  towards  the  table  in 
the  centre  of  the  room. 

"Will  you  allow  me?"  he  added.  "A 
lady's  letter.  I  must  see  that  it  reaches  no 
other  hands." 

He  held  the  paper  to  the  gaslight,  and  the 
two  men  stood  watching  the  eager  flame 
snatch  at  it ;  watched  the  play  of  the  yellow 
blaze,  saw  the  blackening,  writhing  edges  as 
the  paper  burned,  saw  the  light  ashes  fall 
and  pass  from  sight  —  watched,  and  said 
nothing.  Would  either  have  spoken  had 
either  thought  how  typical  it  was  of  a  lost 

life? 

*  *  * 

The  rain  had  stopped  some  time  before, 
but  the  air  seemed  still  heavy  with  moisture. 
A  thin  fog  had  come  up  suddenly,  and  the 
electric  lights  shone  only  in  dull,  overspread 
ing  glow.  As  the  two  men  stepped  upon 
the  walk,  the  crowd  from  the  theatre  close  at 
hand  had  just  begun  to  break  upon  the  street. 

"  I  could  not  stay  inside,"  said  Alston. 
"  There's  a  life  in  every  breath  of  air." 

Trego  said  nothing. 

"  I  am  going  back  to-morrow,"  continued 
Alston. 


THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE  97 

"Yes,"  replied  Trego,  absently. 

Both  men  spoke  as  if  there  were  but  little 
left  for  which  they  might  care.  They  seemed 
bewildered,  lost,  as  if  chaos  had  suddenly 
turned  to  blank  space  —  vacancy  without 
confine. 

They  walked  in  silence  up  the  Avenue. 

Then  suddenly  there  came,  dull  and  yet 
distinct,  that  ominous  sound  that  means  so 
much  to  the  dwellers  in  cities  —  to  everyone 
who  knows  what  it  is  —  the  rush,  the  clang, 
the  nearing,  passing,  departing  something 
that  brings  to  mind  dark  thoughts  of  dis 
ease,  of  casualty,  of  crime,  of  the  long,  silent 
suffering  of  the  sick-bed,  of  the  mutilation 
of  sudden  accident,  of  the  direful  wrongs 
man  dares  do  to  man ;  a  sound  that  brings 
to  mind  thoughts  of  the  hospital,  the  knife, 
the  grave.  No  man  loiters  so  carelessly 
that  he  will  not  turn  in  sudden  gravity 
when  he  hears  it ;  none  is  so  busy  that  he 
will  not  pause  as  it  comes  to  his  ear — 
a  throbbing,  dominating  sound,  heard  now 
above  the  rattle  of  glittering  equipages 
giving  way  before  it,  and  now,  at  'midnight, 
lessening  down  the  distance  of  some  deserted 
street. 
7 


g8  THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE 

Alston  scarcely  noticed  the  ambulance  as 
it  approached. 

People  farther  along  were  gathered  about 
the  edge  of  the  sidewalk,  and  Trego  has 
tened  on  alone. 

A  woman  lay  upon  the  pavement,  her 
head  resting  upon  the  curb-stone  as  upon 
a  pillow. 

With  quick,  sharp  exclamation  he  started 
back.  The  gathering  whiteness,  the  tight 
ening  rigidity  of  his  countenance,  could  be 
plainly  seen  beneath  the  hard,  brutal  glare  of 
the  electric  light.  He  fell  upon  his  knees, 
and,  drawing  a  handkerchief  from  his  pocket, 
dropped  it  over  her  upturned  face. 

The  ambulance  stopped.  The  young 
physician  who  came  with  it  sprang  out  and 
made  a  hurried  examination,  utterly  disre 
garding  the  kneeling  man ;  but  in  a  minute 
he  instinctively  turned  to  him  with  signifi 
cant  gesture. 

"  She  is  dead  ?"  asked  Trego. 

The  young  man  bowed  his  head,  and  with 
that  instantaneous  something  that,  when 
occasion  comes,  tells  any  man  whither  to 
turn  for  aid,  he  said  : 

"  Will  you  help  me  ?" 


THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE  99 

Trego  staggered  to  his  feet,  and  together 
they  placed  the  lifeless  body  within  the 
terrible  shelter  of  the  injured  and  the  dead. 

The  bell  struck  the  silence  as  with  sud 
den  blow;  the  horse  leaped  beneath  the 
lash  ;  the  wheels  rattled  on  the  pavement, 
and  the  ambulance  vanished  down  the 
Avenue  as  might  some  quick  and  ghastly 
vision  of  the  night. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  asked  Alston,  as  he  came 
up  to  Trego,  who  stood  silent  in  the  thin 
ning  crowd. 

He  did  not  answer. 

"What  is  it?"  repeated  Alston,  taking 
Trego  by  the  arm. 

Trego  started. 

"  The  end  of  a  tragedy,"  he  answered, 
steadily,  rigidly. 

Then,  after  a  moment,  he  added,  abrupt- 
ly: 

"  Let  me  have  some  money.  I  haven't  a 
dollar.  I  must  have  money  to-night.  I'll 
need  it  to-morrow.  It  is  the  only  way  I 
can  get  it,  and  I  must  have  it.  Let  me 
have  some  money.  Do  you  hear  me  ? 
Money  !  I  will  repay  it ;  you  may  be  sure 
of  that." 


TOO  THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE 

"Would  she  say  that  I  should  if  she 
knew?"  asked  Alston. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Trego,  more  quietly — "  if 
she  knew  all  that  you  have  told  me  to 
night." 


PAPOOSE 


PAPOOSE 


AT  four  o'clock  the  scant  winter  sun 
light  filtered  but  dimly  through  the 
heavy,  low-lying  clouds,  the  smoke-thicken 
ed  air,  and  the  quick-whirling  snow-flakes. 
Down  in  the  narrow  city  street,  where  the 
vans  and  carts  and  cabs  seemed  almost  to 
flow  with  and  be  borne  along  by  a  stream  of 
liquid  mud  that  hid  the  pavement — a  noisy 
debacle  tearing  down  this  ragged,  urban 
gully,  like  'a  raft  with  loosened  withes  rush 
ing  and  tumbling  through  a  flume — the  light 
was  gray  and  grisly.  Above  and  through  the 
grimy,  cobwebbed  windows  of  a  large  room, 
just  beneath  the  eaves  of  one  of  the  large 
buildings  lining  the  cramped  thoroughfare, 
it  seemed  to  lose  its  character  as  light,  and 
to  be  sifted  and  to  fall  as  might  dull,  sodden 
sand  through  a  sieve.  It  was  a  very  poor 
place.  There  were  no  curtains  on  the  win 
dows  ;  the  floor  was  bare.  In  one  corner 


104  PAPOOSE 

stood  a  small,  square  stove ;  no  comforting 
fire  in  its  barren  grate ;  no  welcoming  light 
between  its  gray  bars ;  its  name,  "  The  Fire 
side,"  appearing  in  raised,  rusty  letters  across 
its  front,  a  grim  sarcasm,  a  sort  of  iron  irony. 
The  rust-scaled  pipe  ran  low  at  first  along 
the  wall,  then  rose  to  and  through  a  tin-filled 
square  of  a  window-sash,  as  if  it  were  the 
writhing,  sharp -jointed,  evil  genius  of  the 
forbidding  place.  In  another  corner  was  a 
long,  low,  ragged  divan,  and  near  it  doddered 
a  decrepit  chair,  with  one  arm  uplifted, 
threatening  away  all  approach.  But  the 
room  was  not  without  things  not  wholly  ac 
cordant.  Upon  the  walls,  in  plain,  pale  hard 
wood  frames,  hung  crookedly  an  autotype 
of  the  angel's  head  in  Botticelli's  "Spring," 
and  a  reproduction  of  Diirer's  "  Melancholia." 
A  large  chair,  covered  with  rich  but  well- 
worn  stuff,  stood  in  front  of  the  grim  stove, 
and  in  a  doorway  leading  to  an  adjoining 
room  hung  from  a  broken  rod  a  heavy  por- 
ttire  of  embroidered  silk.  A  bookcase  of 
elaborately  carved  oak  rose  above  the  lead- 
colored  wainscot,  its  two  upper  shelves 
empty,  its  three  lower  only  partially  filled. 
There  was  something  about  its  aspect  that 


PAPOOSE 


105 


made  it  plain  to  the  minds  even  of  those 
who  least  understand  the  untold  that,  not 
very  long  before,  the  empty  shelves  had 
been  filled  ;  that  the  volumes  now  left 
were  not  then  deserted  by  those  most  sal 
able  of  them  all.  On  its  top,  at  one  end, 
rose  a  small  bronze — Martha  and  Mephisto 
—  evidently  at  loss  for  an  object  of  the 
sympathy  of  the  one  and  the  sneer  and 
jeer  of  the  other,  for  none  could  be  so  with 
out  the  eyes  that  see  the  unseen  as  not  to 
see  that  a  Faust  and  Marguerite,  creatures 
of  the  same  metal,  were  but  lately  gone  from 
the  opposite  side.  Between  the  divan  and 
the  stove  lay  a  fine  Persian  rug  with  a  stain 
in  one  corner  and  a  hole  in  the  other ;  and 
on  a  stand  in  the  angle  nearest  the  door  was 
quite  an  array  of  cups  and  plates  and  jars, 
some  of  them  beautiful  and  costly,  no  two 
of  them,  however,  of  the  same  kind  and  pat 
tern,  and  all  looking 'like  fine  folk  out  of 
place  and  out  of  luck ;  these  and  other 
things  evidently  appertaining  to  a  better  life 
than  was  possible  in  such  quarters.  There 
was  scarcely  an  air  of  squalor  about  the  room, 
but  it  was  gray  in  its  dusty  ceiling,  worn 
as  to  its  broken  paper-hanging,  neglected, 


106  PAPOOSE 

and  in  its  aspect  and  influence  very  melan 
choly. 

On  one  of  the  rickety  chairs,  and  at  an 
unpainted  table,  its  broad  top  spotted  with 
ink  stains,  sat  a  man,  his  elbows  resting  on 
its  edge,  and  his  face  covered  by  his  hands. 
He  had  held  this  attitude  for  some  time. 
The  small  cheap  clock  on  the  bookcase — 
Mephisto  used  to  grimace  over  it  at  Faust — 
its  clear  ticking  unnaturally  strong  for  a 
thing  so  small,  as  unnaturally  loud  as  is  the 
harsh,  stridulous  piping  of  some  persistent 
little  demagogue  in  the  commonwealth  of 
some  tree  upon  a  hot  summer's  night — the 
busy  little  clock  had  tallied  off  the  minutes 
of  half  an  hour  since  he  had  stirred.  Now, 
as  he  raised  his  head,  he  saw  through  the 
window  before  him  how  dull  and  metallic, 
how  like  worn  and  blackened  tin,  the  light, 
if  light  it  might  be  called,  of  the  closing  day 
had  become.  Rising,  he  stood  for  a  mo 
ment,  with  one  hand  upon  the  table,  evi 
dently  irresolute  ;  then  he  walked  backward 
and  forward  half  a  dozen  times,  the  length 
of  the  room.  His  step  was  sometimes  firm, 
but  now  and  then  he  seemed  to  falter  in  his 
walk.  As  if  something  of  the  power  of  voli- 


PAPOOSE  107 

tion  were  lost,  he  would  almost  stop  for  a 
second  with  slight,  spasmodic,  purposeless 
gestures.  It  was  patent  in  his  most  expres 
sive  face,  even  in  that  light,  that  he  was 
with  quick  change  tossed  to  and  fro,  from 
resolution  to  weakness,  from  weakness  to 
resolution,  ungoverned  really  by  self -con 
trolling  power.  One  might  almost  fancy 
that  the  now  strained  and  now  relaxed  lines 
in  his  face  were  as  the  sinews  of  the  thoughts 
that  struggled,  staggered,  went  down,  arose, 
and  went  on  in  the  contest  then  at  its  height 
in  his  mind. 

As  abruptly  as  he  had  risen,  and  as  if  at 
last  in  absolute  determination,  he  sat  down, 
and,  drawing  a  few  sheets  of  paper  scattered 
on  the  table  towards  him,  he  took  up  a  pen 
and  wrote,  hastily: 

"  As  you  are  the  only  one  who  has  any 
right  to  expect  an  explanation,  or  to  whom  I 
have  the  slightest  desire  to  attempt  justifica 
tion  of  what  I  am  about  to  do,  I  write  to  you." 

He  paused,  and  again  glanced  up  at  the 
window  ;  the  light— for  the  clouds  now  in 
places  seemed  worn  and  frayed — was  a  little 
stronger,  but  still  it  was  more  like  some 


io8  PAPOOSE 

sickly  phosphorescence  than  the  deadened 
but  healthy  glow  of  the  ruddy  sun.  Then 
he  wrote  hurriedly  on : 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  can  justify  either 
myself  or  my  act.  The  taking  of  a  crim 
inal's  forfeited  life  is  defensible;  the  taking 
of  the  life  of  him  who  attacks  your  own  may 
be  vindicated.  If  my  life  has  wronged  me, 
deceived  me,  threatened  me,  may  I  not  take 
it,  when  it  is  mine.? 

"  The  instinct  of  most  men,  finding  them 
selves  where  I  find  myself,  is  mere  cowardli 
ness,  and  through  such  instinct  they  degrade 
duties  and  responsibilities  into  safeguards, 
and  lurk  behind  them  in  excuse  for  their 
weakness.  Men  fear  pain  as  do  children 
ready  with  their  outcry ;  fear  death  as  chil 
dren  shudder  at  the  thought  of  a  darkened 
room.  They  affect  endurance  in  mock 
heroism,  and  sneer  at  suicide  because  they 
are  afraid.  I  do  not  shrink  from  pain — 
the  crash  of  the  marring  bullet  through  the 
flesh  and  bone  will  be  but  for  a  moment.  I 
do  not  fear  the  darkness — generally  the  hab 
itation  of  peace ;  I  rather  seek  it — seek  the 
content  of  oblivion.  I  believe  in  the  subtle 


PAPOOSE  109 

delight  of  eternal  unconsciousness,  in  the  still 
blissfulness  of  restful  absorption  into  the  im 
mensity  of  that  nature  that  no  man  has  dared 
as  yet  to  blaspheme.  There  is  much  to  truth 
fully  express  which  requires  paradox,  and 
these  are  of  them.  It  is  a  confused  world,  and 
in  such  confusion  there  must  be  affirmative 
opposites;  to  declare  these  may  require  con 
flicting  words,  but  from  such  discordant  clash 
often  comes  the  most  important  truth. 

"  I  might  dilate  upon  the  disasters  of  my 
life.  You  know  them — my  failures,  my  fol 
lies,  my  fancies,  my  frenzies  —  you  know 
them  almost  in  detail.  But  I  am  not  petu 
lant,  querulous,  or  angry,  and  I  do  not  do  it. 
I  possessed  imagination  that  builded  me  a 
house  of  life,  with  lofty  columns  and  wide 
architrave.  I  had  the  means  to  people  my 
house  with  imagined  actualities;  but  now 
the  frieze  lies  along  the  foundation,  and  my 
realities  have  not  the  substance  of  dreams. 
My  fortune  is  gone,  and  here  in  this  miser 
able  chamber  I  scrawl  words  I  scarce  heed 
and  never  shall  read;  here  in  poverty,  al 
most  in  darkness,  for  the  horizon  is  lost  in 
mist,  the  west  is  hung  with  wolf  pelts,  and 
the  night — the  Night — is  at  hand. 


no  PAPOOSE 

"  The  world  will  dismiss  me  from  thought 
with  flippant  condemnation,  saying  that  my 
ruin  is  of  my  own  making.  It  may  be,  but 
I  am  therefore  the  more  worthy  of  atten 
tion.  If  the  world  would  really  know  any 
thing  of  human  existence,  it  must  study  the 
life,  not  of  him  who  has  succeeded,  but  of 
him  who  has  failed.  Success  may  be  an 
accident,  or  the  point  where  linked  and 
common  concatenation  is  chain-bolted  to  a 
necessary  result.  But  a  man  always  ruins 
himself  characteristically,  and  his  failure  ex 
hibits  his  real  nature.  He  is  the  natural 
man,  and — seeming  paradox  again  —  he  is 
often  the  happiest  man.  His  nature  has 
had  its  exercise ;  he  has  striven  along  the 
line  of  its  tendencies.  He  has  lived.  Nine 
times  in  ten  he  who  has  succeeded  has  only 
lifted  and  planted  foot  in  marked  places. 
Good  sense  has  been  a  soul-stifling  bane  ; 
good  maxims  benumbing  restraints.  I  am 
a  failure.  I  have  lived  after  my  own  fash 
ion,  and  if  I  have  not  achieved  happiness, 
who  may?  I  have  ruined  myself  in  my  own 
way.  I  have  missed  no  chance,  neglected 
no  opportunity.  Myself  and  I  rejoiced  in 
our  youth  and  my  fortune.  All  is  gone. 


PAPOOSE  in 

Myself — my  last  coin — I   drop   to-day  into 
that  slot — the  grave. 

"  I  have  a  few  things  left  whereupon  I 
might  realize  enough  to  pay  life's  wages  for 
some  days  longer.  I  have  lived  for  a  fort 
night  on  the  works  of  Herr  Schopenhauer — 
something,  I  natter  myself,  extraordinary,  if 
not  unique.  The  complacent  omniscience 
in  prose,  and  the  lightness  and  sweetness  in 
verse,  in  certain  volumes  of  Matthew  Arnold 
might  sustain  me  possibly  for  a  week ;  but 
perhaps  I  overestimate  my  strength.  I  ne 
gotiated  a  Barbadienne  Faust  to  a  gentle 
man  of  the  Order  of  the  Golden  Three  Balls 
ten  days  ago.  Happy  Faust,  who  lived  in 
a  time  when  men  could  sell  their  souls ! 
Now  there  is  no  longer  a  devil,  and  if  I  at 
tempted  to  raise  the  wind  on  such  security 
in  any  other  market,  I  would  be  regarded 
as  a  common  swindler,  attempting  to  obtain 
goods  under  false  pretences.  I  have  limbs, 
senses,  health.  You  once  did  me  the  honor 
to  say  that  I  had  faculties  that  would  not 
be  inapt  at  turning  pennies  or  earning  plau 
dits.  But  why  make  use  of  any  of  these? 
Why  should  I  take  pains  to  support  this 
clumsy  body  that  gave  me  so  little  satisfac- 


ii2  PAPOOSE 

tion,  even  when  I  was  not  put  to  such  trou 
ble  for  its  keep  ?  A  bullet  shall  close  the 
disjointed  phrase  of  my  life ;  a  bullet  shall 
be  the  period  that  ends  this  jargon,  unintel 
ligible  to  myself  and  to  all. 

"  Do  not  think  that  I  am  careless  or  flip 
pant.  All  solemnities  of  the  moment  stand 
around  me.  What  is  gone  I  know  ;•  what  is 
to  come,  who  can  tell  ?  Myriads  have  be 
lieved  in  futurity;  in  such  comparison  how 
poor,  how  paltry,  is  individual  doubt !  Think 
of  the  massed  suffering  of  ages  borne  in  sus 
taining  credence,  and  one  man's  trouble 
seems  but  peevishness.  I  think  of  one 
man's  complaint  in  the  sweep  of  the  world's 
lamentation,  and  it  seems  but  as  the  creak 
of  a  loosened  shutter  in  the  roar  of  the 
north  wind.  Others  live,  they  say,  because 
life  is  a  duty;  because  I  have  had  some 
small  argumentative  business  with  myself, 
and  rays  of  perhaps  better  light  have  at 
times  shot  through  mere  logic,  and  I  may 
have  seemed  to  have  freed  myself  from 
obligation,  shall  I  desert  ?  But — but  much 
thought  has  made  me  weary,  too  weak  for 
effective  review.  I  have  said  my  life  shall 
have  its  period ;  an  interrogation-point  were 


PAPOOSE  113 

better  punctuation ;  with  weak  iteration  I 
echo  Rabelais'  'Perhaps.'  The  pellet  of  the 
pistol  ball  shall  physic  my  present  pain — 
characteristic  cure — life  true  to  itself  to  the 
last.  Is  there  no  button-hole  in  a  shroud  ? 
I  cannot  seize  Death  by  a  lapel  and  ply  him 
with  questions. 

"  I  go  to  forget ;  I  expect  to  be  forgotten. 
Pity  me,  despise  me;  they  bury  suicides 
now  at  such  cross-roads. 

"  I  doubt  if  I  have  really  said  anything, 
when  I  wanted  to  say  so  much,  and  that  so 
clearly.  I  do  not  even  know  what  I  have 
said,  for  I  am  not  calm,  unimpatient ;  I 
seem  goaded  as  with  some  strange  haste. 
But,  fast  friend,  tried  comrade,  I  bid  you  a 
good  lifetime ;  wish  me  a  good  eternity. 

"  MORRIS." 

The  young  man  paused,  and  looked  up 
with  half-bewildered  stare.  Wholly  sane, 
perhaps,  when  he  began  to  write,  the  weight 
and  multiplicity  of  his  thoughts,  the  stress 
of  the  time,  as  perhaps  some  might  infer 
from  what  he  had  written,  had  wrought  in 
him  at  last  something  like  madness.  In 
telligence  now,  for  a  moment  at  least, 


114  PAPOOSE 

seemed  to  struggle  back  to  the  world  of 
sense  and  comprehensibility.  He  placed  to 
gether  the  loose  sheets  on  which  he  had 
written,  even  numbered  the  leaves ;  then, 
folding  them  carefully,  he  placed  them  in 
an  envelope,  sealed  it,  and  wrote  a  name 
upon  it — "  Philip  Vassel,  Esq." — and  then 
an  address. 

It  had  grown  so  dark  that  the  figures  on 
the  dial  of  the  little  clock  could  not  be  seen 
from  where  he  sat.  He  rose,  and  stepped 
quickly  across  the  floor.  "  Ten  minutes  of 
five,"  he  said.  For  a  moment  he  stood  in 
apathetic  self -absorption,  then  he  hastily 
drew  open  a  drawer  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
bookcase.  The  object  that  he  took  from  it 
shone,  even  in  that  dim  light,  in  his  hand.  It 
was  a  small  thing.  It  might  at  first  have 
seemed  some  costly,  useless  bibelot,  so  rich 
was  it  with  ivory  and  silver ;  some  pretty 
plaything,  were  it  not  for  a  spiteful  look, 
like  the  look  of  a  pampered  toy  terrier.  It 
was  a  highly  ornamented  revolver,  but  so 
small  was  it  that  it  lay  wholly  within  his 
palm — small,  but  at  a  man's  temple  capable 
of  deadly  bark  and  bite.  "  It  might  as  well 
be  at  five  as  any  other  time,"  he  said,  clearly, 


PAPOOSE  115 

and  unconscious  that  he  spoke.  "  Seven 
minutes  to  eternity."  He  carried  the  clock 
to  the  table,  and  sat  down.  He  did  not 
bow  his  head  this  time ;  he  sat  erect,  star 
ing  at  the  dial  before  him.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  he  was  lost  in  a  confused,  luminous 
haze,  a  sort  of  half-consciousness  of  some 
things  and  quick  comprehension  of  others, 
mingled  with  confused  memories  of  many 
things,  as  swarmed  flies  mingle,  eddying 
about  a  spire,  or  around  the  spray  ending  a 
branch  just  stirred  by  the  breeze,  a  puff 
of  waving,  shining  mist  in  a  summer  sun-, 
set — lost  in  a  cloud  that  it  seemed  must 
instantly  shift  into  a  flash  lighting  up,  with 
complete  revealment,  a  moment  crowded 
with  recollections  of  a  whole  life — such  a 
moment  as  he  had  read  comes  to  dying 
men.  But  no  such  moment  came.  "  Per 
haps  it  is  not  near  enough,"  he  said,  again 
aloud. 

It  was  as  if  faculty  of  thought,  use  of 
mental  processes,  were  gone.  There  was 
nothing  left  save  indifferent  recognition  of 
the  plain,  clear,  seemingly  quite  unimpor 
tant  fact  of  life.  "  I  might  as  well  sit  here 
waiting  to  take  some  narcotic,"  he  said. 


n6  PAPOOSE 

But  now  came  hurrying  things — things 
unconnected,  dissimilar,  erratic.  They  came 
as  eager  bidders  might  hasten  to  the  auction 
of  a  dead  man's  chattels — hasten  and  jostle 
on  the  threshold.  He  remembered  that  a 
Frenchman — that  was  the  first  thought  that 
shouldered  in — had  once  said  that  suicide 
was  ill-mannered,  that  it  was  the  height  of 
impoliteness  to  go  where  you  were  not  in 
vited,  and  for  a  moment  the  grim,  facile 
epigram  almost  amused  him,  and  he  slightly 
smiled.  But  quickly  hurrying,  so  closely 
crowding  that  they  overlapped  and  partly 
obscured  each  other,  came  other  thoughts, 
memories,  disconnected,  inappropriate  —  in 
opportune  he  would  have  considered  them 
had  he  had  power  of  criticism  left.  He 
thought  of  an  apple-tree  as  he  had,  when 
a  child,  once  seen  it  in  full  blossom,  when 
the  pied  flowers  were  as  swarms  of  butter 
flies  alighted  all  over  on  its  stiff  little 
twigs ;  now  the  river  before  his  uncle's 
country  place  was  as  clear  as  on  that  summer 
afternoon  when,  a  boy,  he  swam  the  spark 
ling  stream,  than  which  the  upper  sky  could 
not  have  been  so  blue,  "  so  cool,  so  calm,  so 
bright;"  now  shot  into  vision  the  face,  seen 


PAPOOSE  117 

once,  and  once  only,  of  a  young  girl  who 
waited  at  a  gate  for  some  one — perhaps  her 
lover — in  a  shaded  and  leafy  lane  through 
which  he  had  hastily  ridden,  when  a  younger 
man,  one  autumn  evening  —  a  face  that 
struck  him  like  the  clash  of  cymbals.  And 
then  suddenly,  as  if  beneath  some  occult 
spell,  in  almost  visible  form  and  tangible 
substance,  his  situation  seemed  to  stand  be 
fore  him,  and  he  became  a  horror-paralyzed 
spectator  of  himself.  There  were  prefigured 
to  him  the  terrible  aspects  of  the  tragedy 
about  to  be  enacted,  and  of  what  would  fol 
low  when  the  curtain  had  gone  down.  The 
sound  of  the  pistol ;  the  crash  of  the  ball ; 
the  blood  slow  pulsing  in  its  outflow;  the 
oozing  brain ;  the  rattle  of  the  fallen  weapon ; 
his  own  duller,  heavier  fall.  Perhaps  some 
one  would  hear  the  report  of  that  discharge, 
and  force  the  locked  door — would  find  what 
he  had  hardly  ceased  to  be,  quivering,  shud 
dering,  as  it  would  be,  as  if  still  trembling  at 
encounter  with  sudden  death ;  perhaps  none 
would  hear — in  the  big  deserted  building  that 
was  more  probable — and  limbs  and  features 
would  harden  into  rigidity,  and  darkness 
would  gather  in  the  place  as  flocking  ravens 


n8  PAPOOSE 

gather  to  the  slain,  and  all  its  space  would 
become  vacant  of  light  as  his  own  eyes,  un- 
warmed  as  his  heart,  and,  all  night,  that  which 
he  had  become  would  be  left  alone  in  the 
horrible  darkness  and  terrible  silence  —  a 
silence  only  broken  by  the  ticking  of  the 
clock,  that  would  be  like  the  clicking  of  the 
chisel  of  some  busy  stone-cutter  at  work  upon 
black  marble.  And  then  would  come  a 
brazen  to-morrow  that  would,  in  some  way, 
crowd  people  into  the  room,  and,  as  if  it  were 
a  merit  in  itself,  would  play  exhibitor  of  the 
dread  thing  he  was.  There  would  be  ghastly 
faces  and  horrified  exclamations,  and  — 
What  noise  was  that  in  the  street  ?  But 
was  it  of  any  consequence  to  him  what  noise 
it  might  be? 

He  glanced  at  that  diligent  laborer,  the 
little  clock.  With  steady,  sturdy  beat  it 
ticked  away  almost  blithely  at  its  work. 
There,  in  that  place,  it  seemed  indeed  alive, 
and  to  torment  a  man  with  its  activity. 

The  last  minute  before  five. 

His  hand  tightened  upon  the  revolver's 
small  stock.  The  muzzle  touched  his  temple. 
Scarce  a  thread  of  white  lay  between  the 
hour  point  and  the  imperceptibly  advancing 


PAPOOSE  119 

minute-hand.  Now  the  minute-hand  passes 
the  top  of  the  X  in  XII.  Now— 

Rap,  rap,  came  a  faint,  fumbling  knock  at 
the  door. 

Morris  instinctively  turned  his  head.  The 
revolver  already  bore  upon  space. 

Rap,  rap,  once  more. 

The  revolver  was  slightly  lowered. 

Rap,  and  then  the  knock  suddenly  ceased, 
and  there  was  a  sort  of  rustling,  brushing 
noise  as  if  something  fell  with  slow  descent, 
partly  sustained  by  the  door. 

Certainly  this  was  annoying — and  perplex 
ing.  There  are  times  when  a  man  has  the 
right  to  expect  to  be  alone,  when  any  dis 
turbance  is  intrusion.  Can't  a  gentleman 
take  his  own  life  in  peace  ?  he  thought,  with 
whimsical  exasperation.  But  then  a  knock 
at  the  door.  Darwin,  as  wre  all  know,  had 
an  idea  that  perhaps  the  vertebrata  are  de 
scended  from  an  animal  allied  to  existing 
tidal  ascidians ;  and  that  this  might  possibly 
account  for  the  mysterious  fact  that  many 
normal  and  abnormal  vital  processes  of  the 
human  vertebrate  seem  under  the  influence 
of  the  moon.  Possibly  the  impulse  to  an 
swer  a  knock  at  our  door  has  its  origin  in 


120  PAPOOSE 

some  almost  as  remotely  transmitted  in 
stinct,  derived  from  aboriginal  time,  when  a 
man  had 

"  No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather," 

and  such  a  summons  was  an  appeal  for  aid 
and  shelter.  Whatever  may  be  the  reason — 
perhaps  because  the  world  is  so  full  of  pos 
sibilities,  and  imagination  is  so  rich  and 
vivid — it  becomes  an  irresistible  .demand, 
strong  in  the  very  weakness  of  its  petition, 
and  even  at  such  a  time  Morris  was  not 
able  to  free  himself  from  the  unavoidable 
inclination  to  answer  the  call.  He  placed 
the  pistol  on  the  table,  and,  stepping  quickly 
to  the  door,  unlocked  it.  It  was  much 
darker  in  the  hall  than  in  the  room.  Glanc 
ing  down,  he  saw  what  seemed  a  large 
bundle,  so  shapeless  and  still  was  it.  He 
looked  at  it  for  a  moment  —  in  the  moment 
recalling  staggering,  straggling  faculties  to 
power  to  comprehend  actual  things  —  and 
then,  stooping  down,  sought  by  sense  of 
touch  to  discover  what  it  really  was.  At 
first  he  felt  merely  a  fold  of  woollen  cloth ; 
then,  what  he  knew  to  be  an  arm ;  and  then 
soft  hair,  and  a  cold,  small  human  face. 


PAPOOSE  I2i 

"  It's  a  child,"  he  said,  "and  half  frozen." 
He  gathered  the  limp  body  in  his  arms, 
and  carried  it  to  the  big  arm-chair  in  front 
of  the  tireless  stove ;  he  seized  the  chair  in 
which  he  had  been  sitting,  and,  raising  it 
above  his  head,  he  brought  it  down  with  such 
violence  on  the  floor  that  it  flew  into  many 
fragments.  These,  with  an  old  newspaper 
caught  from  the  table,  he  stuffed  into  the 
grate.  A  match  picked  from  a  scattered 
dozen  upon  a  shelf  beneath  the  stove-pipe 
in  an  instant  ignited  the  paper,  and  certain 
grotesque  shadows  that  had  hung  like  so 
many  vampire-bat  skins  in  a  wizard's  cell 
about  the  room  began  a  danse  macabre  on 
the  wall,  tiptoeing  and  bowing  to  an  elfin 
tribe  of  their  kindred  who  ran  towards  them 
from  out  hiding-places  behind  chairs  and 
tables.  There  was  a  little  coal  in  a  small 
box ;  he  rattled  some  of  it  down  upon  the 
flames,  and  many  of  the  shadows,  frightened 
at  the  noise,  fled  out  of  sight.  Then  he 
drew  up  the  chair  nearer  the  blaze.  Taking 
off  the  child's  heavy  shoes — one  heel  showed 
pinkly  through  a  hole  in  the  stocking — he 
placed  a  large  book  upon  the  hearth  and  the 
small  feet  upon  it ;  then  he  chafed  the  little 


122  PAPOOSE 

hands,  blue  with  cold,  between  his  own. 
How  strange — and  it  came  in  fleeting,  tran 
sitory  thought — that  what  five  minutes  be 
fore  had  seemed  worse  than  useless  to  him 
self  seemed  suddenly  so  inexpressibly  pre 
cious  in  this  scantily  clad  child — something 
to  be  preserved  if  human  exertion  could  do 
it !  But  the  sense  of  this  incongruity  was  but 
for  a  moment ;  the  ragged  waif  occupied  his 
active  attention.  A  bright  something  ran 
over  the  small  face,  and  the  large  eyes  slowly 
opened  in  amazement. 

"  Will  I  die  ?"  she  asked,  faintly,  as  she 
gazed  up  at  the  man  bending  over  her.  "  I 
don't  want  to  die." 

"  No,"  he  answered,  as  heartily  and  as- 
suringly  as  he  could ;  "  not  a  bit  of  it." 

"  I  am  glad,"  she  said,  as  her  head  sank 
again  with  a  little  sigh. 

His  voice  seemed  to  him  strained,  stiffened, 
and  formal. 

"  You'll  be  all  right  soon,"  he  went  on, 
speaking  rapidly,  and  provoked  that  he 
could  not  command  an  easier  and  more 
natural  tone.  "  You  are  only  a  little  cold," 
and  he  grew  absolutely  angry  that,  out  of 
practice  as  he  had  been,  he  could  not  do 


PAPOOSE  123 

more  in  softening  his  words.  "  You  will  be 
warm  in  three  minutes,"  he  added,  a  little 
more  satisfactorily — "  a  minute  "  would  have 
sounded  harsh  —  "and  then  you  will  feel 
better." 

"  I  feel  better  now,"  said  the  child,  quite 
comfortably.  "  But  don't  watch  me  so. 
"  I've  a-ma-zing  dislike  to  being  watched  so." 

"You've  what  ?"  he  asked,  astonished  at 
the  long  words,  and  looking  at  her  even 
more  earnestly. 

"A-ma-zing  dislike,"  she  repeated,  turning 
a  languid  face  towards  him,  almost  with  fine- 
ladyish  air. 

"  Oh !"  he  exclaimed,  and  began  looking 
at  the  grate. 

"  That  is  a  very  nice  fire,"  she  said.  "  I 
don't  think  I  ever  saw  a  nicer  fire.  I  don't 
pos-i-tive-ly." 

And  as  the  word  fell  very  slowly,  Morris 
turned  and  looked  at  her  again. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you,  don't  ?"  she  said,  with 
a  strange  little  look  of  command.  "  But 
what  a  soft  chair,  and  what  pretty  colors  ?'' 
and  with  a  light  forefinger  she  followed  the 
shape  of  a  spreading  leaf  woven  in  the  tapis- 
serie.  "  You  must  be  a  very  rich  man." 


124  PAPOOSE 

If  some  one  had  ascribed  to  him  omni 
science  or  omnipresence,  the  powers  of  an 
Indian  adept,  or  the  ability  of  a  circus  con 
tortionist,  Morris  could  not  have  been  more 
staggered.  That  she  had  not  a  doubt  about 
what  she  said,  was  plain  in  the  wondering, 
almost  admiring  glance  that  she  turned  upon 
him. 

"  It's  nice  to  have  money,"  she  said,  and 
she  held  her  small  hand  before  her  face, 
almost  as  if  she  were  careful  of  her  com 
plexion,  and  afraid  that  the  fire-light  would 
hurt  it.  If  the  broken-winged  sparrow  that 
he  had  picked  up  in  the  gutter  a  week  ago 
had  b.ent  its  pathetic  eye  upon  him  and 
given  utterance  to  some  aphorism,  say  from 
the  collection  of  maxims  Lord  Chesterfield 
gathered  from  the  memoirs  of  Cardinal  de 
Retz,  he  could  not  have  been  more  amazed. 
He  looked  at  her  attentively.  Her  cheeks 
were  sunken;  her  lips  were  pale;  her  eyes 
unnaturally  bright.  Over  her  features  was 
the  worn,  weary  look — the  look  that  lies 
upon  features  shadowed  and  sharpened  by 
the  pinch  and  privation  of  poverty.  But  in 
her  case  it  did  not  seem  unpleasant ;  there 
mingled  with  it  no  aspect  of  unnatural  precoc- 


PAPOOSE  125 

ity,  nothing  of  the  expression  of  the  impish 
acuteness  of  too-clever  children.  It  seemed 
only  the  result  of  hardship,  of  experiences 
that  should  not  have  come  to  one  so  young. 
But  she  was  a  beautiful  child  even  as  she 
was,  with  that  look  of  race,  or  breeding,  or 
whatever  it  is,  the  quality  of  all  really  fine 
organisms  never  wholly  lost,  no  matter  in 
what  strait  the  human  or  brute  creature  may 
be ;  that  something  that  belongs  to  all 
thoroughbreds — those  who  win  the  race  by 
a  neck  if  needs  be,  but  win — those  among 
us  of  pure  lineage,  trace  of  which  may  have 
been,  perhaps,  for  a  time  lost,  drawn  from 
remote  source,  as  it  may  have  been,  and 
through  and  over  common  clay  —  to  those 
who  dare  and  do,  compelled  to  do  and  dare 
by  something  in  their  nature  —  something 
giving  assurance  of  endurance  and  strength 
in  reserve  equal  to  all  assail,  and  even  in 
defeat  not  wholly  overcome. 

u  Don't  you  feel  much  better  now  ? " 
he  asked,  as  he  looked  down  upon  this 
calm  little  creature,  evidently  so  self-pos 
sessed. 

"  I  think,"  she  said,  unhesitatingly,  "  that 
I  am  hungry." 


126  PAPOOSE 

Of  course  she  must  be  hungry.  He  was 
a  brute  not  to  have  thought  of  that  before. 
But  what  could  he  give  her  ?  A  man  on  the 
point  of  committing  suicide,  and  in  such 
rooms,  would  hardly  be  apt  to  have  a  well- 
stocked  larder;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  so  little 
had  Morris  had  of  coin  or  of  any  currency 
for  the  last  weeks  that  command  over  food 
or  drink  had  been  but  slight. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  he  said,  blankly,  "  that  I 
haven't  anything." 

If,  half  an  hour  before,  any  sensible  man 
had  told  him  that  he,  Richard  Morris,  then 
only  thinking  of  quitting  an  existence  that 
he  found  unbearable,  would  so  soon  and  so 
eagerly  long  for  the  possession  of  the  sim 
plest  sustenance  that  might  maintain  life  for 
a  hungry  child,  that  he  should  feel  such 
awkward  shamefacedness  that  he  had  not 
anything  to  give  her,  he  would  have  turned 
from  him  with  the  scorn  that  most  merely 
sensible  people  deserve. 

"  But  I  can  go  out  and  get  something," 
he  added,  suddenly  remembering  the  for 
tune  of  a  few  pieces  of  silver  loose  in  his 
pocket. 

"  Please  do,"  she  said  ;  "  I   am   very  hun- 


PAPOOSE  127 

gry.  I  haven't  eaten  anything  for  a  whole, 
long,  awful  day.  Won't — won't  you  please 
hurry  ?" 

A  whole  day !  This  child  without  food 
for  a  whole  day  !  The  thing  was  startling ; 
the  thought  of  it  one  to  make  a  man  pro 
voked  with  himself  and  his  kind.  She  must 
have  food,  and  at  once.  He  started  towards 
the  door,  but  he  did  not  like  to  leave  her 
alone,  weak  as  she  was.  He  hesitated,  and 
then  suddenly,  with  glad  relief,  he  remem 
bered  that  he  had  some  preserved  fruit  and 
some  crackers  purchased  long  before,  when 
he  had  yet  hope,  and  thought  of  striving  to 
make  something  of  his  life.  He  found  them, 
and  gave  the  already  opened  bottle  and  the 
untied  parcel  to  the  child.  But,  he  asked 
himself,  had  he  done  rightly  ?  Were  Wies 
baden  strawberries  and  those  dry,  sweet  bis 
cuits  really  the  thing  to  give  to  a  starving 
little  being  like  this  ?  But  already  she  had 
the  bottle  under  one  arm,  and  one  of  the 
crackers  loaded  with  the  luscious  berries  at 
her  lips. 

"  Oh !"  she  said  in  an  instant  ;  and  there 
was  ineffable  depth  of  satisfaction — unspeak 
able  ecstasy  of  gratification,  in  the  half- 


128  PAPOOSE 

murmured,  half -ejaculated  syllable.  The 
countenance  of  a  gourmet  suffused  with  de 
light  in  a  just-tasted  and  supremely  delicate 
plat ;  of  a  connoisseur,  aglow  as  the  bouquet 
and  flavor  of  some  rare,  age -thinned  ichor 
of  some  royal  vine  melt  along  two  senses 
for  the  instant  seemingly  made  exquisitely 
one  —  were  but  blanks  compared  to  the 
child's  face  as  she  finished  the  quick  feat  of 
swallowing  her  first  mouthful.  But  as  the 
second  half-cracker  and  its  load  disappeared, 
Morris  wondered  if  he  should  not  stop  her. 
Famished  persons,  he  had  read,  should  not 
be  allowed  to  eat  so  much  and  so  quickly. 

"  I  never,  never  tasted  anything  so  good," 
she  managed  to  say.  "  Do  you  always  eat 
such  good  things?" 

This  last,  after  a  large  part  of  a  well- 
freighted  cracker  had  been  swallowed  in  one 
mouthful. 

He  did  not  answer.  He  had  unexpectedly 
made  a  humiliating  discovery.  He  was  very 
hungry  himself — fiercely,  ravenously  hungry. 
Whether  it  was  the  child's  eager  voracity  or 
only  the  nearness  of  this  vivid  bit  of  human 
life  that  relaxed  the  tension  of  the  last  mor 
bid  days  and  humanized  him  into  something 


PAPOOSE  129 

more  natural,  he  did  not  take  time  to  think. 
He  was  hungry;  that  was  the  present,  active 
fact.  He  picked  up  one  of  the  crackers,  and 
almost  hesitatingly  took  a  bite  of  it. 

"  Put  on  some  of  this,"  she  insisted,  with 
a  certain  richness  in  her  gobbled  words,  for 
her  mouth  was  full. 

He  did  as  he  was  bidden,  and,  sitting  on 
the  arm  of  the  chair,  he  began  eating  with 
as  much  appetite  and  almost  as  much  sense 
of  gratification  as  the  child  herself.  It  was 
a  close  thing  between  them,  first  one  and 
then  the. other  at  the  bottle;  and  sometimes, 
when  his  hand  was  slightly  before  hers,  she 
rapped  it  with  a  cracker,  and  insisted  that 
her  own  should  be  first. 

Soon  he  laughed. 

"Don't,"  said  the  child  —  "don't  laugh 
that  way.  Aren't  you  glad?" 

He  stopped.  It  was  grotesquely  ludi 
crous,  enough  to  divert  a  very  devil  with 
any  touch  of  facetiousness  in  his  diabolism. 
A  handful  of  minutes  or  so  ago,  and  actually 
he  was  going  to  shoot  himself,  and  here  he 
was  seated  on  the  same  chair  with  a  child 
on  whom  he  had  never  laid  eyes  before, 
silently  and  diligently  eating  "  bread  and 
9 


130 


PAPOOSE 


honey."  It  was  like  smearing  the  ghastly 
face  of  tragedy  with  jam,  like  filling  the  ter 
rible  hand  of  self-slaughter  with  bonbons. 
What  anticlimax  could  have  been  more 
complete?  what  bathos  more  profound? 

And  still  they  sat  speechless,  and,  like  the 
sailor's  wife, 

"mouncht,  and  mouncht,  and  mouncht," 

only  now  and  then  turning  eager,  curious, 
watchful  eyes  upon  each  other. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?"  he  asked  at  length, 
as  he  shook  the  cracker  crumbs  from  his 
fingers. 

"  Papoose,"  she  answered,  quickly,  as  she 
took  a  bite  of  the  last  cracker  of  them  all. 

4 

"  But  that's  hardly  your  real  name,  you 
know,"  he  said.  "You  must  have  some 
other." 

"  Oh  yes  !"  she  answered,  looking  into  the 
bottle,  where  some  inches  of  its  contents 
still  remained,  and  as  if  the  other  name  were 
a  wholly  unimportant  superfluity,  "  I've  an 
other — two — Marjory  Penhallow." 

"  Marjory  Penhallow,"  he  repeated. 

"  Every  one  calls  me  Papoose,"  she  said, 


PAPOOSE  i3I 

indifferently.  "  I  think  you'd  better  call  me 
Papoose." 

He  did  not  understand  exactly  how  it  was 
brought  about,  but  from  that  moment  he 
knew  he  was  enlisted  in  her  cause.  Not  that 
her  supremacy  had  been  declared  ;  quite  the 
contrary  ;  her  dependence  had  been  estab 
lished,  that  was  all  —  a  dependence  more 
masterful  than  any  tyranny. 

"How  old  are  you?"  he  asked,  hesi 
tatingly,  and  almost  fearful  of  appearing 
rude. 

"Twelve  and  a  half,"  she  answered.  "  Is 
not  that  too  young?"  she  added,  contemp 
tuously. 

"  I  have  known  people  younger,"  Morris 
answered,  with  grave  politeness. 

"  It  seems  strange,"  she  said,  "but  I  ought 
to  be  older.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have 
lived  years  and  years." 

"  And,"  he  asked,  taking  advantage  of  the 
opportunity — for  there  was  a  diminutive 
stateliness,  a  minimized  dignity,  about  this 
young  person  that  had  hitherto  led  him  in 
sensibly  to  abstain  from  asking  her  such 
questions,  although  he  was  desirous  of  know 
ing  what  had  brought  her  to  his  door  in 


I32  PAPOOSE 

such  condition  and  at  such  a  time — "  have 
you  always  lived  here  ?" 

"  In  this  city,  do  you  mean,  or  in  this 
house  ?"  she  asked,  precisely. 

" Do  you — did  you  live  in  this  building?" 
he  demanded,  in  astonishment. 

It  was  a  large  structure,  with  many  rooms 
and  long,  narrow  halls.  Its  lower  part  was 
used  for  shops,  the  second  and  third  stories 
for  small  manufacturing  work,  and  the  top 
for  cheap  lodging- rooms.  Now,  as  it  hap 
pened,  Morris  was  the  only  occupant  of  the 
cold,  deserted  upper  story,  where  tenants 
came  and  went  with  such  significant  fre 
quency. 

"  A  long  time,"  she  answered.  "  The 
Necromancer  and  Isaac  Newton  and  I." 

"  Who  ?" 

"  The  Necromancer  and  Isaac  Newton 
and  I,"  she  repeated.  "  The  Necromancer 
was  my  uncle,  Isaac  Newton  was  the  cat, 
and  I  was  myself." 

"Why  the  Necromancer?" 

"  Because    he    used    to   do   such    strange 

things.     He   made   queer-looking  little  bits 

of    machines,    and    had    queer    mixtures  in 

i queer  glasses.     He  had  a  white  beard,  just 


PAPOOSE  133 

like  necromancers  in  books.  He  was  a 
great  inventor.  I  always  wanted  him  to 
discover  the  philosopher's  stone  I'd  read 
about,  but  he  wouldn't." 

"No?"  said  Morris. 

"  No,  he  wouldn't ;"  and  she  went  on 
slowly,  and  with  a  great  effort  of  memory : 
"  he  said  modern  chem-is-try  did  more  than 
ancient  al-che-my  ever  thought  of  doing ; 
that  no  trans-mu-tation  was  as  wonderful  as 
some  of  the  results  of  e-lec-tri-cal  action; 
that  his  philosopher's  stone  would  make  us 
as  rich  as  if  he  could  really  make  gold.  I  did 
not  understand  him  very  well.  Do  you  ?" 

"  I  think  so,"  said  Morris.  "  And  the  cat  ?" 
he  asked. 

"  The  cat  was  Isaac  Newton,  because  he 
was  the  greatest  man  that  ever  was,"  she 
said,  confidently. 

"  How  long  did  you  live  here?"  he  asked. 

"  Years,  but  not  in  these  rooms.  They 
were  too  grand  for  us.  We  lived  in  small 
ones  on  the  other  side." 

"  Why  did  you  go  away?" 

"  The  Necromancer  died,"  she  answered, 
with  something  hushed  in  her  tone.  "  I 
found  him  lying  beside  his  work-bench  one 


134  PAPOOSE 

day,  on  the  floor,  and  there  was  a  little  spot 
of  blood  on  his  white  forehead.  They  said 
it  was  falling  on  the  floor  did  it.  Oh,  he 
was  so  thin  and  light  that  I  could  have  lifted 
him  almost !" 

Neither  spoke  for  a  moment. 

"I  held  his  head,"  she  went  on,  "and 
screamed  and  screamed.  He  was  so  stiff, 
you  know,  and  hard.  Then  I  kissed  him  on 
his  forehead  where  there  wasn't  any  blood, 
and  then  I  screamed  again,  and  then  people 
came." 

She  cast  one  look  over  her  shoulder  into 
a  dark  part  of  the  room,  and  then  turned 
quickly  towards  the  protecting  light  of  the 
coals,  now  brightly  aglow  in  the  stove. 

"Then  the  Schroeders  came,"  she  went  on. 

"Who  were  the  Schroeders?"  he  asked  in 
a  minute. 

"They  were  very  nice  people,"  she  said, 
with  a  quick  adaptability ;  "  de-light-ful  peo 
ple.  They  used  to  live  in  these  rooms,  and 
that's  why  I  came  here  to-night.  They  were 
just  married.  They  had  a  rose-bush  in  the 
window,  and  a  canary-bird.  Isaac  Newton 
used  to  come  here  with  me,  and  when  he 
saw  the  canary-bird  he  would  roll  his  eyes 


PAPOOSE  135 

around,  and  just  open  his  mouth  a  little,  so 
that  you  could  see  a  little  white  of  his 
teeth,  and  I'm  sure  he  would  have  eaten 
it  if  he  conld.  Mr.  Schroeder — she  called 
him  Max,  but  of  course  I  couldn't  do  that 
— was  a  piano-tuner,  and  I  don't  believe 
piano-tuners  are  very  rich  men.  But  they 
were  much  richer  than  we,  and  they  were 
so  nice  to  me.  They  took  me  to  their 
rooms  and  kept  me  weeks." 

"And  this  was  a  long  time  ago?"  he 
asked. 

"  Ever  so  long  ago — in  the  spring,"  she 
continued,  "  But  one  day  Mrs.  Schroeder 
found  a  letter  in  one  of  my  old  dresses  that 
said  that  if  anything  happened  I  was  to 
be  sent  to  some  cousins  who  lived  in  the 
country,  and  that  they  were  to  take  care  of 
me.  And  so  one  day  Mr.  Schroeder  took 
me  to  see  them,  and  oh !  they  were  such 
strange  people !  One  Christmas  the  jani 
tor's  second  youngest  baby  got  an  ark  in 
his  stocking,  and  that  ark  was  in-hab-i-ted 
by  Noah  and  Shem  and  Ham.  Well,  they 
were  just  like  my  cousins,  only  that  they 
were  much  smaller,  of  course  I  never  saw 
a  house  like  theirs ;  but  then  I  have  not 


136  PAPOOSE 

seen  the  inside  of  many  houses  ;  a  great,  big 
place,  almost  as  large  as  this,  that  was  never 
warm,  and  where  there  was  no  dust.  It 
seemed  to  me  sometimes  that  if  it  could  be 
a  little  dirtier,  it  would  be  a  little  warmer. 
Oh,  it  was  so  clean  !  it  seemed  to  me  that 
the  things  were  almost — raw.  I  don't  think 
that  they  had  much  money  either — how 
very  strange  it  is  that  really  nobody  I  know 
seems  to  have  much  money  ? — but  they  told 
me  that  they  would  not  sell  it  and  move 
into  one  of  the  small  warm  cottages,  for 
anything ;  that  they  had  in-her-i-ted  it,  and 
that  it  was  an-ces-tral.  Well,  they  talked 
together,  and  then  they  finally  said  that 
they  would  keep  me.  Then  Mr.  Schroeder 
went  away,  and  then  I  cried,  and  they  stood 
and  looked  at  me  so  solemnly  and  so  kindly, 
as  if  they  didn't  know  what  to  do  with  me." 

"And  did  you  live  there  long?"  asked 
Morris,  as  she  paused  for  a  moment. 

"  Long !"  she  exclaimed.  "  Two  thousand 
years  by  the  parlor  clock." 

"  Well  ?"  he  said,  laughing  at  last. 

"  Oh,  you  want  to  hear  more?  We  didn't 
have  much  re-cre-a-tion  there — some  of  my 
words  I've  only  read,  and  I'm  not  quite  sure 


PAPOOSE  137 

of  the  pro-nun-ci-a-tion — in  that  house.  Sun 
day  there  was  the  most  to  do,  for  we  used 
to  drive  to  church  with  a  horse  with  queer, 
straight  bones  like  rulers,  and  sit  in  straight 
up-and-down  pews  like  my  cousins'  chair- 
backs,  and  listen  to  a  man  who  did  not 
seem  to  me  to  talk  very  civilly  to  the  peo 
ple." 

"  But  they  were  always  kind  to  you  ?" 
said  Morris. 

"  Oh  yes ;  but  there  is  such  a  difference 
in  'kind,'  you  know.  There  was  the  Ne 
cromancer's  '  kind ' — the  biggest  " — and  she 
held  out  her  arms  as  if  she  would  include 
miles  of  space;  "and  there  was  the  Schroe- 
ders'  'kind;'  and  then  there  is  your  'kind' — 
all  of  them  different,"  and  she  looked  up  at 
him.  "  What  is  your  name?"  she  asked,  sud 
denly. 

"  Morris." 

"  Yes,  Morris,  they  were  always  one  kind 
of  '  kind  ;'  but  really  they  didn't  know  how, 
and  I  cried  and  cried,  and  thought  I  should 
die." 

"What  didn't  you  like?" 

"The  country,  for  one  thing.  It  was  aw 
ful." 


i38  PAPOOSE 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Morris,  softly.  He  had 
always  had  a  vague  idea  that  children  al 
ways  liked  the  country,  and  the  answer  sur 
prised  him. 

"  It  was  frightful.  Perhaps  I  should  like 
it  if  it  was  more  pop-u-lated ;  but  there  was 
almost  no  one  to  see  all  day  long,  and  al 
most  nothing  to  do.  No  swarms  of  people, 
no  lovely  shop  windows,  no  hand-organs — 
nothing.  In  the  summer  it  was  bad,  very 
bad,  but  in  the  winter — oh  !  It  was  like  be 
ing  shut  up  in  a  cave  in  the  dark,  and  I  was 
afraid.  At  night  I  could  only  sit  and  think 
how  it  was  at  home,  where  the  pretty  elec 
tric  lights  were  shining,  and  the  people  were 
going  to  the  theatres ;  and  I  couldn't  stay 
out  there  any  longer,  Morris,  and  so  I  ran 
away." 

"  What  ?" 

"  Ran  away,"  she  repeated. 

"How  did  you  do  that?" 

"  When  Mr.  Schroeder  went  away  he  gave 
me — my  cousins  didn't  come  clear  to  the 
gate — a  little  money.  He  said  he  thought 
— he  was  looking  back  at  my  woman  cousin, 
who  stood  on  the  steps  and  held  out  her 
hand  to  see  if  it  was  raining — that  I  might 


I'APOOSE 


139 


some  time  want  to  buy  something  to  please 
myself;  for,  God  bless  me!  he  said,  he  didn't 
believe  I  would  have  much  to  please  me 
there.  I  kept  that  money  for  a  per-i-od  of 
dis-tress,  and  when  I  ran  away  I  walked  to 
the  station  ;  it  wasn't  far,  not  more  than  fif 
teen  blocks.  I  stepped  up  to  the  janitor  of 
the  station-house  and  said :  '  Is  that  enough 
to  buy  a  ticket  to  New  York  ?  If  it  is,  I 
want  a  very  good  one,  please.'  '  What  are 
you  going  to  New  York  for?'  he  asked,  while 
he  was  pulling  a  ticket  out  of  a  place.  '  To 
see  friends,'  I  said,  and  then  he  gave  me  the 
ticket.  And  that  was  true,  for  I  was  going 
to  see  the  Schroeders.  I  got  to  the  city,  and 
then  I  had  to  ask  my  way,  first  from  one 
policeman  and  then  from  another,  and  I 
kept  getting  hungrier  and  colder,  and  then  I 
lost  my  way,  and  it  has  taken  me  all  day  to  get 
here,  and  the  Schroeders  are  gone,  after  all, 
and  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do." 
There  was  little  of  doubt,  less  of  helpless 
ness,  and  nothing  at  all  of  despair  expressed 
in  her  last  few  words.  So  far  was  she  from 
doubt  or  fear  that  it  was  evident  that  her 
only  anxiety  was  to  obtain  the  rest  of  the 
strawberries  without  cracker  as  she  was. 


I4o  PAPOOSE 

She  tipped  up  the  bottle,  and  tried  to  cram 
her  hand  down  the  neck. 

"  I  think,"  said  Morris,  "  that  perhaps,  you 
know,  you  hadn't  better  eat  any  more  of 
that  now." 

"  But  I  am  very  hungry,"'  she  insisted. 

"  Suppose  we  go  out  and  get  something — 
well — healthier,"  he  said. 

"And  bring  it  back  here  and  eat  it?"  she 
exclaimed. 

"If  you  like." 

"  Shoes,"  she  cried.    "  Give  me  my  shoes." 

Morris  handed  them  to  her,  and  in  a  mo 
ment  she  had  them  on,  and  with  a  quick 
stamp  or  two  she  settled  her  feet  well  into 
them. 

The  weather  had  suddenly  changed.  As 
Morris  and  Papoose  stepped  out  of  the 
building,  they  found  the  street  and  side 
walks  white  with  the  new-fallen  snow.  It 
had  been  cold  in  the  afternoon,  but  it  was 
much  colder  now,  and  was  freezing  rapidly. 
The  city  no  longer  seemed  murky,  dismal, 
and  forbidding,  but  bright,  clean,  and  spark 
ling.  The  mud  had  stiffened,  and  was  hid 
from  sight ;  the  snow  had  filled  the  dusky 


PAPOOSE  141 

corners  and  crannies  in  the  forlorn  build 
ings,  and  lay  thickly  on  the  dark,  sullen 
roofs.  The  electric  lights  were  somewhat 
dimmed  by  the  thick  flakes,  and  each  looked 
like  some  great  globular,  semi-transparent 
fruit  with  gleaming  core  ;  but  still  they  man 
aged  to  light  everything  very  brilliantly, 
causing  the  fringing  icicles  on  the  window- 
ledges  and  eaves  to  glisten,  until  it  might 
seem  in  some  places  almost  as  if  the  houses 
were  illuminated  for  some  festival,  with  rows 
of  suspended  and  sparkling  lamps.  The 
vehicles  in  the  street  were  fewer,  but  the 
people  on  the  sidewalks  were,  if  anything, 
more  numerous.  The  dull  roar  of  the 
wheels  was  stilled,  and  the  crowds  no  longer 
walked  as  if  in  tread-mill  work,  but  with  brisk 
step,  as  if  freed,  at  least  for  a  time,  from 
routine  and  care.  The  ceaseless,  unwearied 
murmur  of  the  great  city  filled  the  air — that 
wonderful  diapason,  present  always,  but  with 
varying  resonance,  and  at  most  times  with 
saddening  or  dismaying  undertone ;  now, 
however,  rising  almost  with  something  of 
gentle  assurance,  of  quieting  promise,  as 
might  some  Brobdingnagian  lullaby.  And 
the  air — the  air  gave  quick  elation.  The 


142  PAPOOSE 

change  was  as  great  and  evident  as  might 
be  noticed  if  some  sad,  dark  water  of  some 
iron  -  impregnated  spring  were  suddenly 
charged  with  keen  vivacity  and  glad  vola 
tility. 

Morris  had  not  been  out  for  two  days,  nor 
had  he  for  a  longer  time  given  attention  to 
the  things  of  the  surrounding  world.  Now 
he  noticed  the  stir,  the  brilliancy,  the 
thronged  ways,  the  illuminated  shops,  with 
some  surprise.  Was  the  city  always  like 
this,  and  had  he  never  realized  it?  Was  it 
his  mood  or  the  world  that  was  changed,  or 
both? 

"  Everything  seems  very  gay  to-night,"  he 
said,  as  he  took  the  child's  hand. 

"  Why !"  Papoose  exclaimed,  in  amaze 
ment.  "  Don't  you  know  ?" 

"  No,"  he  confessed. 

"Why,  it's  Christmas  Eve!  Didn't  you 
know  that?  I  thought  that  everybody 
knew  that." 

Christmas  Eve,  and  not  to  know  it !  He 
had  never  felt  quite  so  humiliated  in  his  life. 
There  was  not  a  beggar  in  the  street,  not  a 
prisoner  in  his  cell,  who  did  not  know  it, 
whose  heart  was  not  a  little  gladder,  whose 


PAPOOSE  143 

feeling  was  not  a  little  kindlier,  for  the 
knowledge.  He  was  but  a  drivelling  creat 
ure,  with  small  faculties  in  petty  derange 
ment  ;  he  was  a  poltroon  who  would  be  fugi 
tive  from  annoyance,  would  hasten  out  of 
life  in  mere  spite.  He  had  gathered  up  a 
store  of  ills,  and  in  his  vain  desire  to  put  the 
great  scheme  of  creation  in  fault,  he  set 
value  by  them  as  a  madman  might  to  the 
pebbles  he  thought  diamonds.  Any  village 
idiot,  wandering  afield  with  straw -decked 
hat,  and  cackling  with  laughter  at  the  good 
things  he  heard  from  his  familiars  in  the  air, 
was  wise  and  worthy  of  admiration  beside 
his  cowardly,  imbecile  self.  So  he  thought, 
or  so  he  instinctively  felt,  as  he  again  walked 
the  world,  the  keen  wind  blowing  in  his  face, 
and  the  lights  about  him,  and  a  warm  little 
hand  tight  in  his  own.  Kill  himself !  Kill 
himself.  And  on  Christmas  Eve  !  The  hor 
ror  of  it ! 

Papoose  marched  on  in  a  delirium  of  vivid 
delight.  The  movement,  the  general  air  of 
festivity,  charmed  her ;  the  noise  delighted 
her;  but  the  windows — the  wonderful  pano 
rama  of  the  shop  windows — filled  her  with 
complete  and  ceaseless  satisfaction.  The  con- 


144  PAPOOSE 

fectioners',  where  white-capped  and  aproned 
men  pulled  out  and  about  the  gigantic  skeins 
of  shining  candy ;  the  toy-shops, where  seemed 
collected  the  small  models  from  which  every 
thing  had  been  made ;  the  jewellers',  where 
the  gems  glittered  on  the  dark  plush  cushions 
only  less  brilliantly  than  the  now  unclouded 
stars  in  the  wind-cleared  heavens — in  the  soft, 
black  velvet  sky — all  were  enchanting.  But 
it  was  before  a  great  jeweller's  shop  that  she 
paused  the  longest  and  looked  the  most  wist 
fully. 

"  Oh  !"  she  said,  shaking  her  head  slowly, 
"  if  I  only  had  one  ring,  even  like  that  dear 
little  one  with  the  blue  flower,  I  would  be 
happy — happy — happy  !"  She  turned  reluc 
tantly  away.  "  It's  nice  to  look  at  them,  any 
way,"  she  sighed. 

But  her  beloved  and  regained  city  filled 
her  with  too  great  a  joy  to  be  easily  sub 
dued,  and  she  quickly  brightened  up. 

"  I  haven't  got  much  money,  you  know," 
said  Morris,  apologetically,  as  they  went  on. 

"  Oh  no  !"  she  answered,  quickly  and  cheer 
fully,  as  if  that  of  course  were  everybody's 
natural  condition,  and  no  more  to  be  deplored 
than  the  fact  that  one  has  no  more  than 


PAPOOSE  145 

ten  toes.  "  But  you've  got  some,  haven't 
you  ?" 

"  That's  all,"  and  he  drew  from  his  pocket 
a  few  half-dollars  and  quarters. 

"All  that  to  spend  at  once?"  she  cried. 
"  But  won't  you  need  it  for  rent?" 

"I  think  not." 

"Surely?" 

"  Surely." 

"  Oh,  how  much  we  shall  buy !  Let  me 
show  you." 

Papoose  knew  the  streets  of  that  quarter 
of  the  town  as  a  nun  knows  her  cloister. 
She  knew  exactly  where  she  wished  to  go. 
Gradually  Morris  found  his  pockets  filled 
with  packages,  his  hands  with  bundles.  Pa 
poose,  rich  in  experience,  worked  wonders 
with  the  small  handful  of  money  ;  never  be 
fore  would  he  have  believed  that  so  little 
would  have  bought  so  much. 

"  Go  to  the  best,  and  you'll  get  the  best, 
and — the  most, "she  said, sagaciously, as  they 
left  a  huge  establishment,  where  she  had  judi 
ciously  invested  twenty-five  cents  at  least. 

Every  one  remembered  her ;  everywhere 
she  was  greeted  as  an  old  friend.  At  the 
baker's  she  was  treated  as  a  distinguished 
10 


146  PAPOOSE 

stranger ;  at  the  little  French  shop  selling 
charcuterie  she  received  an  ovation ;  at  the 
great  grocer's,  a  triumph.  The  hurrying 
clerks  in  the  largest  and  most  crowded  places 
treated  her  with  particular  deference,  and 
received  her  orders  with  peculiar  attention. 
All  had  missed  her,  and  were  glad  to  see  her. 
The  greetings  she  received  affably ;  the 
questions  she  answered  briefly.  She  was 
very  busy,  and  had  no  time  for  gossip  now. 
At  last  she  announced  that  all  her  purchases 
had  been  made. 

As  they  returned  to  what  Papoose  already 
designated  as  "home, "Morris  felt  himself  an 
other  man.  An  hour  perhaps  before,  he  had 
been  of  a  different  nature,  out  of  kindred 
with  his  kind;  now  he  felt  as  if  he  had  found 
a  new  naturalization.  He  felt  like  the  oth 
ers;  he  too  carried  bundles  as  so  many  did, 
and  dropped  them  and  laughed,  and  was 
laughed  at  by  a  companion.  How  long  a 
way  he  had  travelled  in  a  short  time !  He 
was  really  almost  jolly.  Human  voices  rang, 
but  gently  and  yet  deeply,  and  with  more 
cheer  than  any  voices  he  had  ever  before 
heard;  the  crowd  was  no  obstruction,  rather 
something  companionable  and  pleasant ;  the 


PAPOOSE 


147 


jostle  of  a  shoulder  an  informal  salutation  ; 
every  stare  a  "  Merry  Christmas!"  Meet  the 
world  fairly,  and  it  will  strike  hands  with 
you  in  fair  bargain ;  loosen  a  strap  so  that 
its  load  will  sit  easier  on  its  shoulder,  and 
it  will  help  you  with  your  own  burden ; 
slink  away  in  hypochondriacal  mood,  and 
can  you  expect  it  with  its  wholesome,  healthy 
strength,  with  all  the  careless  exuberance  of 
its  life,  to  turn  after  you,  to  run  down  your 
small  blind  alley,  and  nourish  your  petty 
vanity  with  the  pap  of  cajolery?  In  some 
such  fashion  now  ran  his  thoughts. 

Suddenly  Papoose  stopped,  and  with  her 
finger  on  her  lip — a  frequent  gesture  with 
her — looked  up  at  the  sky. 

"How  dark  it  is  away — there!"  she  said, 
slowly.  "I  always  feel  as  if  it  must  be  all 
so,  all  about  us,  below  us  too,  and  that  the 
Necromancer  has  gone  down  through  a  dark 
door  into — that." 

How  dark  it  would  have  been  with  him  ! 
thought  Morris,  "away  —  there,"  had  his 
journey  not  been  stopped  upon  the  thresh 
old  by  a  fainting  child's  weak  hand. 

Morris  placed  the  packages  on  the  table. 


I48  PAPOOSE 

"  We  should  have  got  something  to  light  up 
the  place,"  he  said,  reproachfully. 

"  Open  the  long  bundle,"  commanded  Pa 
poose,  briefly. 

Within  were  two  candles. 

"  Is  it  your  pleasure  that  the  illumination 
begin  ?"  he  asked. 

Papoose  nodded. 

Morris  placed  one  candle  in  a  long  Vene 
tian  glass — a  piece  of  rich,  rare,  twisted  Mu- 
rano  work — and  the  other  in  the  neck  of  a 
beer  bottle,  and  put  them  on  a  small  mantel 
behind  the  stove. 

"  The  effect,"  he  said,  stepping  back,  "  is 
even  brilliant." 

Papoose  undid  the  other  bundles,  and 
spread  their  contents  on  the  table.  There 
was  bread ;  there  were  several  sausages,  very 
fat  and  brown ;  there  were  some  white, 
creamy  cheeses ;  and  there  was  a  box  of  sar 
dines;  a  Yorkshire  pie — purchased  at  the 
suggestion  of  Morris ;  and  there  was  a  pack 
age  of  chocolate,  already  prepared  for  use ; 
and  there  was  another  bottle  of  the  straw 
berries. 

"  I  can  get  some  water  in  the  hall,"  she  said ; 
and,  seizing  a  dish,  she  ran  out  of  the  room. 


PAPOOSE  149 

In  a  moment  she  had  the  chocolate  boil 
ing  on  the  fire,  in  a  pot  that  she  recognized 
as  belonging  to  the  Schroeders,  and  that 
Morris  had  acquired  with  all  the  other  goods 
of  an  outgoing  tenant,  which  he  had  pur 
chased  without  much  thought  of  what  he 
was  getting. 

"  Now  we  can  begin,"  Papoose  said,  final 
ly,  when  she  had  set  the  table  to  her  satis 
faction,  and  when  the  chocolate  was  quite 
ready. 

Morris  had  a  bottle  or  two  of  Apollinaris 
that  he  had  procured,  and,  opening  one,  he 
filled  a  glass  for  Papoose.  But  she  did  not 
like  it.  After  a  sip  she  turned  away  with  a 
disgusted  moite. 

"Oh,  the  horrid  stuff!"  she  exclaimed. 
"  It  spits  in  my  face." 

They  were  very  hungry ;  they  were  very 
silent.  There  are  repasts  at  which  conver 
sation  is  not  the  most  brilliant  part  of  the 
performance. 

While  they  were  still  eating,  one  of  the 
great  events  of  the  evening  took  place. 

"  Oh !"  cried  Papoose,  suddenly  drawing  up 
her  feet.  Almost  at  the  same  instant  a  feeble, 
plaintive  "  me-ouw  "  sounded  under  the  table. 


150  PAPOOSE 

"  It's  Isaac  Newton,"  she  exclaimed,  look 
ing  down,  and  immediately  she  was  on  her 
knees  with  the  cat  in  her  arms.  "  But  how 
he  does  look  !" 

Certainly  Isaac  Newton  did  not  look 
flourishing.  He  was  thin  to  emaciation, 
his  fur  was  ruffled  and  soiled,  and  his  ears 
were  torn  and  scarred.  He  had  evidently 
encountered  disastrous  days  and  stormy 
nights,  and  there  was  a  dispirited,  not  to 
say  a  dissipated,  look  about  him  that  was 
very  shocking.  But  he  did  not  appear  in  the 
least  aware  of  his  own  shortcomings.  He 
acted  quite  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  as 
if  he  were  in  his  best  evening  dress.  He 
calmly  allowed  himself  to  be  stroked  with 
out  any  manifestations  of  undue  delight, 
only  purring  very  loudly,  and  butting  his 
head  energetically  against  the  child's  arm. 

But  Papoose  was,  on  the  whole,  disap 
pointed  with  the  meeting. 

"  I  think  you're  a  good-for-nothing  old 
cat,"  she  said.  "  You're  not  in  the  least 
glad  to  see  me ;  but  I'll  feed  you  all  the 
same." 

At  last,  between  Morris  and  herself  and 
Isaac  Newton,  almost  everything  was  eaten, 


PAPOOSE  151 

and  Papoose  settled  herself  back  in  her 
chair. 

"  Wasn't  it  good  ?"  she  said. 

"  Good  ?"  he  answered.  "  It  was  am 
brosial." 

"  You  were  hungry  too  ?"  she  said,  in 
some  astonishment.  "  Why  were  you  hun 
gry  with  so  much  money  ?" 

"  Because — I  forgot,"  he  answered,  lamely. 

"  You  must  have  been  very  happy." 

"  Or  very  miserable." 

"  That  is  silly.  When  we  are  hungry  and 
cold  and  alone,  we  are  miserable.  But  you 
were  not  cold,  and  you  had  money  to  buy 
food,  and  you  were  in  the  city.  Don't  you 
know  anybody  ?" 

"  A  great  many." 

"  Then  why  were  you  alone  ?" 

"  It  is  good  to  be  alone  sometimes,"  he  said. 

"  Never,"  she  answered,  decidedly.  "  Don't 
they  want  to  see  you  ?" 

"  Some  do." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  see  them  ?" 

"  Because,"  answered  Morris,  slowly,  "  I 
suppose  I  am  proud,  and  afraid  they  might 
think  that  I  want  their  help." 

"  How   silly !"  said   Papoose,   contemptu- 


152  PAPOOSE 

ously.  "If  you  want  their  help,  you  want 
it.  Why  shouldn't  people  help  each  other? 
You've  helped  me." 

"  I  thought  I  had  gone  down  too  far  to 
help  any  one." 

"  Well,  you  see,"  she  responded,  trium 
phantly.  "And  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you, 
what  would  I  have  done?  Are  you  sorry?" 

"  Very  glad." 

"  Then  why  shouldn't  they  be  glad  ?  I 
don't  understand  you.  You  are  very  silly." 

It  struck  Morris  with  something  of  aston 
ishment  that  really,  on  the  moment,  he 
could  not  give  a  direct  and  concise  state 
ment  of  his  woes  that  would  satisfy  this 
direct  and  practical  fellow-creature.  There 
was  certainly  something  wrong.  Before  this 
healthy,  cheerful  little  person  anything  he 
could  have  said  would  have  seemed  artificial 
and  false. 

"  I  wonder,  Morris,"  she  said,  "  if  you  are 
stupid.  You  haven't  said  anything  in  the 
least  amusing  since  I  have  been  here,  and 
then  to  be  miserable,  and  on  Christmas  Eve! 
I  never  heard  of  anything  so  silly.  Why, 
Christmas  is  meant  to  make  us  happy." 

"  Yes,"  said  Morris. 


PAPOOSE  153 

"  Of  course,"  she  went  on,  "  there  was  a 
time  long,  long  ago  when  there  was  no 
Christmas.  Then  the  world  was  not  really 
happy,  for  then  it  was  only  wise ;  it  did  not 
know  so  well  how  to  love.  Then  a  Child 
was  born,  who  grew  to  be  a  Man,  and  who 
taught  it  new  things.  People  had  known  a 
great  deal  before,  but  they  did  not  know 
how  to  love  each  other  as  well  as  now,  for 
that  was  what  He  taught  them."  And  she 
added,  slowly  and  laboriously,  "  on  earth 
peace,  good  will  toward  men." 

"  Yes,"  said  Morris,  in  a  very  low  tone. 

"  I  have  seen  pictures  of  Him  many  times. 
They  were  not  always  quite  the  same,  but 
very  much  alike.  In  them  He  is  always  sad. 
I  wonder  why,  since  He  taught  us  happi 
ness?"  She  paused.  "And  that  is  what 
Christmas  is  —  His  birthday  —  the  birthday 
of  the  Man  who  showed  us  how  to  be 
happy." 

Papoose  sat  gazing  into  the  fire  and  strok 
ing  Isaac  Newton's  bobbing  head.  As  she 
finished  speaking  she  closed  her  eyes  for  an 
instant,  and  then  opened  them  very  quickly. 
She  was  evidently  becoming  sleepy. 

Morris  had  forgotten  her.     He  was  think- 


154  PAPOOSE 

ing  of  what  he  was,  and  what  he  had  in 
tended.  Suppose  there  were  no  God — so  ran 
his  thoughts — yet  here,  if  not  the  great  con 
trivance,  was  the  great  casualty  of  all  things, 
and  man  the  acme  of  the  accident.  How 
despicable  to  disgrace  his  kind  by  such  ex 
hibition — exhibition  proving  that  the  height 
of  being  is,  after  all,  as  weak  as  the  pulp 
of  protoplasm,  as  small  as  an  atom  of  mat 
ter  !  Certainly  even  fortuity  must  have  laws, 
and  such  an  act  as  he  had  contemplated  could 
not  be  within  the  true  operation  of  forces 
strong  enough  to  make  and  regulate  a  world. 
That  a  man  should  be  coward  enough  to 
hide  himself  in  oblivion,  this  was  craven 
lese-majest^  against  creation  however  created. 
But  if  there  be  a  God — and  no  human  being 
was  ever  sure  that  there  was  not  —  what 
then?  The  self-stultification  of  setting  him 
self  up  against  the  Most  High,  of  nullifying 
the  ordinance  of  his  own  life ;  the  insult  of 
throwing  back  such  gift  to  its  Giver — what 
could  such  creature  hope  in  eternity?  What 
could  such  petty  larcener  who  stole  his  own 
existence  hope  among  those  who  had  suf 
fered  and  nobly  borne  ?  But  he  could  think 
no  more.  How  unsubstantial  it  all  must 


PAPOOSE  155 

really  have  been  !  It  had  needed  but  the 
touch  of  a  child's  hand,  only  a  few  mo 
ments'  apposition  with  a  clear,  pure  numan 
nature,  to  reteach  him  what  life  really  is, 
to  make  him  breathe  its  breath  again  with 
ample  lungs.  The  old  law  was  right,  as  it 
was  in  so  many  things  that  are  called  bar 
barous.  A  suicide's  burial  should  be  at  the 
cross-roads,  where  the  earth  shall  be  so  tram 
pled  that  through  it  no  ghost  even  can  arise. 

Here  Papoose  stirred,  making  a  brave 
struggle  to  keep  awake. 

"What  have  you  been  thinking  about?" 
asked  Morris,  with  a  start. 

"  I  was  thinking  that  it  was  Christmas 
Eve,  and  I  was  wondering  if  I  hung  up  my 
stocking — " 

Morris  glanced  quickly  at  her.  It  was 
not  a  matter  likely  to  occur  to  him,  and  he 
had  not  thought  of  this  very  important  part 
in  the  observance  of  Noel.  But  he  had  no 
more  money  wherewith  to  buy  even  the 
humblest  gift,  and  surely  on  this  night  any 
place  where  money  might  be  procured,  as  he 
had  procured  that  which  had  supported 
him  for  the  past  days,  must  in  very  decency 
have  folded  its  shutters,  as  bats  their  wings, 


156  PAPOOSE 

and  closed  its  doors  for  the  time.  A  small 
fraction  of  one  of  the  smallest  sums  that  he 
had  squandered  without  thought  would  have 
given  her  pleasure  incalculable,  and  he  re 
gretted  that  he  had  no  money  for  her  as  he 
had  never  regretted  the  want  for  himself.  A 
little  honest  exertion  and  he  would  not  have 
been  in  such  a  plight.  But  she  should  have 
something;  Christmas  morning  should  not 
bring  her  the  great  grief  of  finding  herself 
giftless. 

"  You  might  try,"  he  .suggested. 

She  shook  her  head  wearily,  but  her  stock 
ing  was  already  off,  and  her  hand  run  into 
it. 

"  There's  a  hole,"  she  said,  and,  with  that 
power  of  quick  transition  from  sadness  to 
joy  that  characterized  her,  she  laughed 
gayly. 

"  Here,"  said  Morris,  picking  up  a  piece  of 
twine  with  which  one  of  the  bundles  had 
been  fastened  ;  "  we'll  mend  it."  Clumsily 
he  tied  it  around  the  torn  part  of  the  heel. 
"  There !"  as  he  hung  the  stocking  from  the 
mantel. 

"  The  last  time  I  hung  up  my  stocking," 
she  said,  "  I  got  this  with  the  other  things," 


PAPOOSE  157 

and  she  pulled  from  out  of  her  dress  a  little 
gold  locket  hung  upon  a  worn  piece  of  ribbon 
around  her  neck.  "  Isn't  she  pretty?"  she  ask 
ed,  as  she  opened  it  and  handed  it  to  Morris. 

"  Very,"  he  answered ;  "  but  it  is  very  much 
like  you." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  ;  "  it  was  my  mamma." 

"  Oh !"  he  exclaimed.  Where  had  he  seen 
the  face  before  —  lovely,  petulantly  attrac 
tive,  animatedly  charming  as  the  child's 
own  ?  Had  he  seen  it,  or  was  his  recollec 
tion  the  memory  of  some  painter's  canvas- 
caught  ideal,  or  the  lingering  remembrance 
of  some  striking  portrait  ?  In  Papoose  he 
had  once  or  twice  noticed  expressions  that 
in  the  same  way  seemed  to  remind  him  of 
somebody  or  something,  and  the  face  in  the 
locket,  in  its  more  vivid  suggestion,  only  in 
creased  his  perplexity. 

"It  was  made  before  she  ran  away  and 
married  papa,"  went  on  Papoose. 

Might  it  be  possible?  The  idea  was  too 
preposterous  even  for  a  moment's  harborage, 
and  yet — 

"  Mamma  ran  away  just  as  I  have,  and 
they  wouldn't  see  her,  and  she  wouldn't  see 
them,  and  she  died." 


158  PAPOOSE 

He  turned  over  the  locket.  There  was 
the  name  still  clear  in  the  worn  gold,  and 
with  the  date,  too.  And  so  it  was  all  ex 
plained. 

Papoose,  with  her  head  in  one  corner  of 
the  chair,  had  gone  to  sleep. 

Morris,  in  the  unrest  of  conflicting  emo 
tions,  had  not  thought  what  he  should  do 
with  her  for  the  night ;  but  now  the  ques 
tion,  if  question  there  had  been,  seemed 
settled.  He  lifted  her  from  the  chair,  and, 
carrying  her  into  the  next  room,  he  placed 
her  on  the  bed ;  then,  covering  her  carefully 
with  a  blanket  or  two,  he  went  out,  drawing 
the  portiere  behind  him. 

"  He  must  know — and  to-night,"  he  said, 
pausing  again  before  the  fire.  "I'll  go  my 
self.  I'll  accept  his  aid  if  he  offers  it.  As 
she  says,  '  Why  shouldn't  they  be  glad  ?' '' 

Now  the  crowd  had  disappeared,  and  the 
streets  were  almost  deserted.  As  Morris 
walked  quickly  uptown,  he  thought  again  of 
the  change  the  last  few  hours  had  brought. 
He  had  given  help  to  a  frail  existence  that 
might  have  been  lost  without  his  aid,  even 
when  he  would  have  taken  his  own  strong 


PAPOOSE  159 

» 

life.  Which  were  the  nobler  thing  ?  He 
did  not  make  direct  answer  to  this  self- 
question,  but  he  felt  that  somewhere  in  that 
unuttered  response  lay  the  final  solution  of 
all  his  doubts  and  difficulties. 

He  was  passing  before  a  great  church, 
and  through  the  gorgeous  windows  the  light 
shone  in  soft,  subdued  color ;  from  within, 
the  rich,  massed  music  seemed  to  press  even 
through  the  white  stone  walls  in  a  purity  and 
sweetness  before  unknown  to  him.  The 
moon  swept  a  cloud  away,  and  shone  on 
cornice  and  pinnacle,  on  frieze  and  spire,  on 
the  dainty  carving  of  the  marble,  on  the 
wreathed  snow  that  in  some  places  covered 
it,  both  emulous  in  unexcelling  whiteness. 
Now  the  organ's  sound  seemed  to  burst  the 
cathedral  doors,  and  in  grand  volume  came 
a  paean,  an  acclaim,  a  cry  of  proud,  trium 
phant  joy, 

"  For  unto  us  a  Child  is  born." 

It  was  a  midnight  service  for  Christmas 
Eve,  and  as  he  stood  with  his  bowed  head 
against  the  iron  railing,  he  thought  how  truth 
had  come  to  him  that  night  from  the  lips  of 
a  child,  and  he  realized  as  never  before  the 


160  PAPOOSE 

significance  of  that  birth  more  than  eighteen 
hundred  years  ago — that  event  that  has  been 
of  more  moment  to  the  world  than  any 
other  since  it  emerged  from  chaos,  and  per 
haps  is  of  more  momentous  importance  to 
day  than  ever  before. 

When  Morris  mounted  the  steps  of  the 
great  house  away  up  the  Avenue,  its  whole 
front  was  dark,  no  light  appearing  except 
in  the  vestibule,  where  the  heavy  lamp  was 
still  burning.  But  he  knew  the  habits  of 
the  inmates  too  well  not  to  be  certain  that 
some  one  would  be  awake  and  on  duty.  He 
rang  the  bell  confidently.  Vassel's  own 
man  opened  the  door,  the  butler  doubtless 
having  long  gone  to  such  sleep  as  a  butler's 
conscience  permits. 

"  Mr.  Richard !"  exclaimed  the  man,  start 
ing  back. 

"Yes,  Jarvis,  it  is  I,'1  said  Morris.  "I 
am  no  Christmas  ghost.  Is  Mr.  Vassel 
still  up?" 

"  He  is,  Mr.  Richard.  He's  sitting  in  the 
library,  thinking  and  thinking,  as  he's  always 
doing." 

"  I'll  go  alone,"  said  Morris,  as  he  walked 


PAPOOSE  161 

towards  the  room  he  knew  so  well.  The 
door  was  partially  open,  and  as  he  crossed 
the  threshold  he  glanced  around.  He  had 
not  seen  it  for  a  long  time  —  the  gallery 
with  the  brass  railing  running  around  three 
of  its  sides ;  the  great  mantel  above  the 
fireplace  at  the  farther  end  rising  to  the 
ceiling ;  the  volumes  in  thousands  clinging 
and  clustering  tier  on  tier,  the  rich  bind 
ings  and  the  dark  shelvings  deepening  in 
their  soft  tones.  The  big  table  was  litter 
ed,  as  always,  with  pamphlets  and  papers 
in  that  peculiar  confusion  that  denotes 
familiar  use.  Over  all,  the  light  seemed 
massed,  condensed  into  something  richer 
even  than  light,  but  everywhere  almost  the 
same.  Anywhere  an  Elzevir  Terence  might 
easily  be  read,  the  'most  delicate  touch  of 
a  Clovis  Eve  tooling  clearly  seen.  No 
sound  arose  from  the  thick  carpet  as  Mor 
ris  advanced. 

Vassel  sat  before  the  fire,  one  elbow  upon 
the  arm  of  his  chair,  his  head  on  his  hand. 

"  Philip,"  said  Morris. 

Vassel  looked  up  without  start  or  mani 
festation  of  surprise. 

"  You  can  leave  us,  Jarvis,"  he  said  to 
ii 


162  PAPOOSE 

the  man  who  had  followed  Morris  into  the 
room ,  and  as  he  came  forward  Morris  saw 
how  much  older  he  appeared,  how  changed 
he  was  from  what  he  had  been  when  he  had 
last  seen  him. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  come,"  he  said  to 
Morris  as  he  took  his  hand.  "  I  have  hoped 
for  a  long  time  that  you  would  come.  Sit 
here,"  and  he  pointed  to  a  chair  opposite 
the  one  in  which  he  had  been  seated. 

The  two  men  gazed  at  each  other  for  a 
moment  without  a  word. 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  your  help,"  said  Morris. 

"  I  would  have  given  it  without  the  asking 
had  I  known  where  to  find  you  or  how  to 
give  it." 

"  I  would  not  have  accepted  it  then," 
answered  Morris.  "  I  would  not  do  so  now 
had  I  not  learned  much  when  I  thought  I 
knew  the  most.  I  have  learned  to-night 
life's  greatest  lesson :  in  trying  to  help 
another  I  have  helped  myself.  The  touch 
of  a  hand  weaker  than  mine  has  given  me 
strength ;  the  gift  of  one  poorer  than  myself 
has  given  me  riches.  He  is  an  inexperienced 
fool,  Philip,  who  says  that  he  can  do  without 
the  companionship  of  his  kind ;  an  arrogant 


PAPOOSE  163 

braggart  who  thinks  that  he  can  dispense 
with  such  aid." 

"  Have  I  ever  felt  that  I  was  all-sufficient 
to  myself?" 

"Yes." 

"  Have  I  ever  held  my  hand  when  I  could 
give  aid  to  any  I  thought  worthy  of  it?" 

"You  have  always  been  just;  but  we 
must  be  more — we  must  be  generous.  Om 
niscience  alone  has  the  right  to  be  simply, 
severely  just ;  humanity  must  be  something 
more,  lest  it  make  mistake ;  it  must  be 
amply  generous.  The  spirit  that  in  your 
father  drove  your  sister  from  his  house  is 
in  you.  If  he  had  not  died  so  suddenly,  can 
you  doubt  that  he  finally  would  have  re 
lented?  Do  you  doubt  now  what  he  would 
have  done?" 

"Where  did  you  learn  what  you  tell  me?" 

"  From  a  child." 

"  From  a  child  ?" 

"  From  a  child  who  can  teach  you  as 
much  as  she  has  taught  me.  You  need  aid 
of  such  kind  as  much  as  I  did,  who  would 
have  shot  myself  if  it  had  not  come.  I  bring 
you  joy  and  grief.  Can  you  bear  either  or 
both?" 


1 64  PAPOOSE 

"  The  last,  yes ;  the  first,  I  think  so.  I 
have  not  known  it  lately." 

"  Philip,"  said  Morris,  "she  " — pointing  to 
the  mantel,  where  a  large  picture  framed  in 
the  marble  was  partially  covered  with  a 
curtain — "  is  gone,  but  it  was  her  child  who 
saved  my  life  to-night.  I  think  sense  of  the 
inadequacy  of  a  life  alone — lived  for  one's 
self  alone — perhaps  has  come  to  you  before ; 
be  helped,  as  I  have  been  helped,  to  further 
knowledge  before  it  is  too  late." 

The  purveyor  of  light  the  next  morning 
gave  it  forth  with  Christmas  prodigality. 
It  was  not  light  left  over  from  yesterday's 
supply,  polished  up  and  made  ready  for  to 
day's  use.  It  seemed  rather  of  other  es 
sentials,  of  another  nature.  Its  touch  gave 
gladness;  wherever  it  dwelt  or  lay  it  seemed 
a  coating  for  delight.  It  threw  itself,  plate 
upon  plate,  upon  the  closed  wooden  shutters 
of  the  room  where  Papoose  slept,  and,  run 
ning  into  and  filling  their  small  cracks,  seemed 
to  drip  down  like  molten  solder,  part  silver 
and  part  gold.  But  it  was  noiseless,  and 
could  not  break  the  sleep  of  the  tired  child. 
It  was  nearly  noon  when  she  awoke.  She 


PAPOOSE  165 

slowly  opened  her  eyes  and  gazed  about  her. 
That  she  was  puzzled  by  her  surroundings 
was  as  evident  as  that  she  was  wholly  un 
dismayed. 

A  woman  of  fifty,  almost  stately  in  her 
heavy  cloth  dress,  rose  from  the  chair  in 
which  she  sat  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  and 
stood  before  her. 

"  Where  am  I  ?"  asked  Papoose,  amazedly. 

"  You  are  in  Mr.  Morris's  rooms,"  the 
woman  answered.  "  I  am  Mrs.  Beattie,  Mr. 
Vassel's  housekeeper;  and  here,"  she  said, 
"  is  your  maid  Felicie." 

That  she  must  have  awoke,  somebody 
else,  was  the  first  thing  that  Papoose  thought 
as  she  sat  staring  before  her,  and  immedi 
ately  she  had  decided  that  she  would  not 
let  them  know  who  she  really  was — not  at 
first. 

"  Where  is  Morris?"  she  asked. 

"  Mr.  Morris  and  Mr.  Vassel  are  in  the 
next  room,"  answered  Mrs.  Beattie.  "  Will 
you  get  up  now?" 

It  was  a  very  different  Papoose  who  drew 
back  the  portitre  a  little  later.  A  rich  dress 
hung  in  heavy  folds  about  her ;  rich  furs 


i66  PAPOOSE 

were  gathered  at  her  throat ;  upon  her  head 
was  a  small  marvel  of  a  hat,  and  on  her 
hands  were  long,  wrinkled  gloves. 

"  Oh  !"  she  exclaimed. 

Much  was  in  the  room  that  had  not  been 
there  before.  The  divan  was  covered  with 
packages,  the  tables  with  bundles  and  cases. 
The  long-coated  footman,  who  now  stood 
just  outside  the  door,  had  borne  many  arm- 
fuls  from  the  heavy  carriage  that  was  at  the 
entrance  of  the  building.  It  had  been  diffi 
cult  to  gather  all  the  objects  Christmas 
morning,  but  Vassel,  assisted  by  Jarvis, 
who  had  accomplished  wonders,  with  re 
lieving  lavishness,  had  managed  to  have  it 
done. 

"  Oh  !"  repeated  Papoose. 

There  were  toys,  fantastic  and  intricate  ; 
trifles  of  all  kinds,  dainty  and  delightful ; 
there  were  things  wholly  unfitted  for  a  child 
in  their  rarity  and  value. 

"  Oh,  Morris,"  she  said,  "  how  could  you 
have  done  it?" 

"  I  didn't,"  he  said.  "  You  must  thank 
another." 

Then  for  the  first  time  she  looked  at 
Vassel,  who  had  stood  somewhat  apart. 


PAPOOSE  167 

"  But,"  she  answered,  stoutly,  "  you  were 
first,  and  I  will  thank  you  first." 

Seizing  Morris's  hand,  she  kissed  it.  With 
wild  cry  and  exclamation  she  pillaged  the 
place.  When  all  lay  revealed  to  her,  she 
turned  to  the  stocking  that  hung  apparently 
as  limp  and  lank  as  it  had  the  night  before. 

Away  in  its  toe  was  the  blue  ring. 

"  It  is  all  I  could  give,  Papoose,"  said 
Morris.  "  Will  you  wear  it  ?" 

The  price  of  the  weapon  that  the  night 
before  he  had  held  at  his  temple  had 
bought  it. 

"  Put  it  on,"  she  commanded.  She  held 
out  her  hand,  admiring  the  effect.  "  Oh, 
Morris,"  she  said,  "  aren't  you  glad  I 
came  ?" 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  ;  and  he  shuddered 
as  he  glanced  about  the  place,  and  thought 
how  different  a  sight  might  have  been  there 
had  she  not  come. 


"WOULD  DICK  DO  THAT?" 


'WOULD  DICK  DO   THAT?" 


"  T  T    is   positively  not   to  be  borne  any 
J-    longer,"  said  the  Colonel,  half  laugh 
ing,  yet  wholly  in    earnest,  as    he   brought 
down  his  heavy  fist  emphatically  upon  the 
yielding  arm  of  the  large  chair. 

The  Colonel,  the  Counsellor,  and  the 
Honorable  were  seated  in  that  line  of  chairs 
that  bends  around  the  great  fireplace  in 
the  main  hall  of  the  Andros  Club.  Richly 
sober  in  their  upholstery,  and  dignifiedly 
luxurious  in  their  conformation,  these  chairs, 
with  the  small  table  at  the  arm  of  each, 
present  an  imposing  sight,  standing  equi 
distant,  as  they  do,  about  that  broad  hearth. 
To  the  imaginative  they  might  easily  seem, 
in  their  comfortable  rotundity,  a  gathering 
about  the  club  fire  of  some  substantial 
elderly  gentlemen,  ballasted  by  the  con 
sciousness  of  money-bags,  who  have  met  in 
solemn  conclave,  communicating  with  each 


172  "WOULD    DICK   DO   THAT?" 

other  in  expressive   sentences  and  compre 
hensive  silences. 

Upon  their  thoughtful  faces  fell  the  shift 
ing  light  of  the  wood  fire,  from  which  wilful 
and  flickering  gleams,  emissaries  to  dark 
ened  corners  of  the  hall,  ran  with  hastening 
feet.  The  place — the  unassailable  strong 
hold  of  masculine  independence — is  condu 
cive  to  confidence.  The  house  had  once 
been  a  private  residence.  Now  it  has  ex 
changed  the  perfume  of  flowers  for  the 
scent  of  cigars,  the  ripples  of  ivory  keys 
for  the  click  of  ivory  balls,  the  laughter  of 
young  girls  for  the  din  of  men's  voices,  and 
the  household  character — the  accumulated 
meaning  that  gathers  where  a  family  lives — 
for  the  less  significant  aspects  that  have 
existence  in  places  where  life  is  not  passed, 
where  the  real  sorrows  and  joys  of  human 
ity  do  not  find  dwelling.  The  time,  too,  is 
propitious  for  the  business  in  hand.  It  is 
that  interim  between  afternoon  and  even 
ing — the  lazy,  the  luxurious,  \.\\.Q  good  quarter 
of  an  hour  before  dinner;  the  space  wherein 
affairs  and  cares  should  not  be  suffered  to 
obtrude ;  when  anticipatory  appetite  breeds 
lenient  geniality  ;  when  life  gathers,  in  a 


"WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?"  173 

certain  sluggishness,  vivacity  for  what  is  to 
come. 

The  subject  had  long  been  increasing  in 
gravity  with  all  of  us  individually,  but  not 
one  had  yet  had  the  courage  to  make  any 
mention  of  it.  Each  of  us  knew  that  the 
other  two  felt  its  weight,  when  we  met  as 
we  did  every  day  at  the  club  for  an  ante 
prandial  cigar,  but  no  one  had  hitherto 
broached  it.  To-day,  a  short  silence,  a  stare 
passing  from  one  to  the  other,  as  the  pipe 
passes  from  hand  to  hand  at  an  Indian 
council,  preceded  its  open  recognition.  The 
Honorable  first  introduced  the  matter,  in 
hesitating,  diffident,  doubtful  speech.  Some 
thing — some  new  instance  of  our  oppression 
—  had  probably  happened  during  the  day, 
that  had  goaded  him  beyond  endurance. 
His  words  fell  as  the  first  .shower  drops  fall 
on  parched  herbage ;  expression  grew  ani 
mated  in  our  faces,  like  starting,  revivified 
verdure.  The  Counsellor,  as  is  the  wont  of 
his  kind,  insinuated  a  qualification,  a  proviso. 
It  was  stricken  out  without  motion.  Then 
the  Colonel,  as  has  been  seen,  emphatically 
instituted  the  first  real  proceeding  in  the 
matter,  and  sealed  it  with  his  fist.  Instinc- 


174  "WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?" 

tively  we  pulled  our  chairs  slightly  out  of 
line  and  closer  together,  and  the  affair  was 
at  last  formally,  earnestly  under  considera 
tion. 

We  had  been  boys  together  when  Andros 
was  not  the  great  place  it  is.  Each  knew 
the  life,  the  times  of  the  others  almost  as 
well  as  his  own ;  knew  the  school  scrapes 
and  the  college  difficulties  into  which  each 
had  fallen ;  knew  how  often  each  had  been 
refused,  and  by  whom  ;  knew  the  opportuni 
ties  that  had  been  seized,  the  chances  that 
had  been  lost;  knew  the  thousand  trivial 
incidents  of  each  other's  daily  existence. 
Our  pleasures,  our  troubles,  our  hopes,  our 
likings,  our  hates,  our  antipathies,  our  for 
bearances,  were  more  or  less  alike  ;  our  very 
processes  of  tho.ught  were  much  the  same. 
We  understood  each  other  thoroughly,  feel 
ing  in  each  other  that  ease  and  security  that 
perfect  sympathy  alone  can  bring.  And 
now  we,  and  others  like  us,  were  suffering 
from  the  same  grievance — a  grievance  we 
had  all  endured  for  months.  But  we  could 
bear  the  evil  no  longer.  Action  must  be 
taken — so  said  the  Colonel,  and  so  said  the 


"WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?"  175 

others  —  action  in  our  own  behalf,  and  in 
behalf  of  the  rest  who  were  unhappy  be 
neath  the  same  burden. 

We  had  long  been,  we  thought,  an  im 
portant  part  of  the  community — a  circle,  of 
the  perfection  of  which  we  never  had  doubt. 
It  might  not  be  arrogating  too  much  to  our 
selves  to  say  that  we  and  our  associates 
formed  the  good  society  of  the  place.  No 
sphere  in  all  the  spheres  had  truer  radii,  such 
quite  perfect  periphery ;  and  if  ever  a  circle 
could  be  squared,  none  could  be  so  easily 
established  in  complete  rectangularity  as 
ours.  We  had  great  confidence  in  our  funded 
intelligence,  though,  to  be  sure,  we  carried 
no  great  amount  of  small  change  in  the  way 
of  brilliancy.  Good  society  is  in  too  good 
credit  to  require  it;  only  the  insecure  need 
to  be  amusing.  WTe  knew  that  we  were 
more  than  well  off ;  but  we  were  not  exact 
ly  purse-proud,  we  were  only  a  little  over- 
purse-complacent.  Freshly  caught  wealth, 
unhung  and  without  mellowed  flavor,  was 
to  us  rather  raw  and  rank.  Ostentation  was 
a  personal  affront  ;  and  yet  we  would  have 
regarded  mere  ancestral  assumption  as  some 
thing  akin  to  body-snatching.  We  were  an 


i?6  "WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?" 

amazingly  difficult  set  to  satisfy.  Possibly 
we  had  no  very  fixed  views,  and  were  only 
very  comfortable  complexities  of  prejudices, 
self-satisfactions,  mutual  gratulations,  unas 
sertive  pretensions,  with  just  enough  doubt 
about  our  own  perfectness  to  make  us  quite 
apt  to  be  censorious  of  all  things  which 
could  possibly  lead  us  to  any  misgiving. 
But  such  as  we  were,  we  were  well  contented, 
and  we  desired  no  change.  We  ran  in  deep, 
easy,  long-worn  grooves,  as  imperceptibly  as 
if  upon  wheels  with  rubber  tire. 

We  were  not  very  gay.  Andros  was  then 
a  place  where  great  sprightliness  would  cer 
tainly  be  out  of  true  tone.  It  might  as 
well  be  confessed  that  it  was  provincial ; 
but  its  provincialism  was  light,  bright,  with 
many  leavening  urbanities.  We  had  not 
fully  recognized  the  rapidity  with  which  its 
affairs  had  increased,  and  yet  we  heard  the 
hum  of  multiplying  existence,  and  could 
not  but  see  the  purposeful  stir  all  around 
us.  We  were  of  the  Bourbon  spirit ;  the 
old  regime,  the  older  order,  satisfied  us,  and 
we  did  not  apprehend  a  deluge  of  innova 
tion,  now,  or  after  us.  If  we  did  not  forget, 
we  did  not  anticipate.  We  were  old  fogies, 


"WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?"  177 

middle-aged  and  mediaeval,  with  no  con 
sciousness  of  or  desire  for  any  renaissance. 
Of  course,  in  our  youth,  like  all  others,  we 
had  been  radicals,  knew  hot-headed  dreams, 
and  had  been  beset  by  impracticable  long 
ings.  But  the  lava  of  such  young  years 
had  cooled  after  ebullience,  and  had  stiff 
ened  beneath  the  gray,  ash-bestrewn  crust 
of  indifference.  Not  a  man  of  us  but  had 
already,  on  some  morning,  awakened  and 
found  himself,  not  famous,  but  forty.  The 
deposits  of  the  tertiary  formation  are  not 
more  firmly  settled  than  were  we  in  our 
peculiar  social  stratification.  There  had 
been  no  change  for  a  long  time.  Alas! 
we  were  not  students  of  Heraclitus.  We 
had  not  fathomed  the  profundity  of  his 
rather  Hibernian  aphorism,  "  Everything  is 
and  is  not." 

As  will  sometimes  happen  in  such  some 
what  mature  American  places,  there  had  not 
been  a  wedding  of  any  consequence  for  a 
long  time.  Had  we  been  given  to  such  in 
vestigation,  we  might  have  been  almost  led 
to  believe  in  some  theory  of  meteorology,  in 
which,  with  undulatory  and  periodic  sweep, 
sentiment  charges  the  air  at  long-separated 
12 


178  "WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?" 

periods,  and  the  stagnation  in  which  there  is 
no  marrying  or  giving  in  marriage  is,  as  if 
in  elemental  change  and  with  atmospheric 
action,  suddenly  broken  up.  There  had 
been  no  considerable  engagement  for  years ; 
indeed,  there  were  none  to  become  engaged. 
Our  children  were  still  young,  too  young  to 
be  far  enough  advanced  in  their  education  to 
deal  with  that  problem  in  mystic  mathe 
matics  by  which  two  are  made  one ;  and  this 
possibly  will  better  explain  the  fact  that  no 
case  of  such  heart  failure,  or  acceleration,  had 
occurred  for  so  long.  Of  course  there  had 
been  marriages  in  the  town,  contraction  of 
wedlock,  connubial  starts  in  life,  conjugal  be 
ginnings  ;  but,  it  is  repeated,  there  had  been 
no  weddings  worth  mentioning,  none  in  that 
important  fragment  of  the  world  in  which 
we  were  so  prominent.  "  The  felicity  of  un 
bounded  domesticity"  had  become  with  us 
something  a  matter  of  course  ;  the  manna 
had  ceased  to  seem  a  miracle,  and  was  ev- 
ery-day  bread.  The  balance  of  power  was 
finally  well  established  and  carefully  guard 
ed  ;  mutual  boundaries  were  clearly  defined 
and  rights  respected.  If  something  of  the 
transport  was  gone,  so  was  something  of 


"WOULD   DICK  DO   THAT?"  179 

the  trouble  and  vexation  of  spirit.  Peace 
reigned;  usage,  that  beneficent  power,  had 
fixed  everything  that  could  be  expected  of 
a  husband,  ordinated  whatever  a  wife  might 
ask  ;  and  the  edicts,  the  code  of  Custom  the 
Great,  were  never  broken.  Could  such 
golden  period  last?  Fatuous  men:  we 
should  have  known  that  mortality  could  not 
hold  such  Elysian  tract  in  anything  like 
life  estate. 

Richard  Garrard  Fenwick — so  his  name 
stood  on  the  club  list — had  been  too  young 
— he  was  five  years  younger  than  the  Hon 
orable,  who  was  the  junior  of  the  other 
two — when  the  last  hymeneal  levy  had  been 
made,  and  had  so  escaped  the  draft.  But, 
young  and  unmarried  as  he  was,  he  seemed 
as  thoroughly  our  companion  as  if  he  wore 
the  medals,  the  crosses,  the  decorations,  of 
a  dozen  years  of  matrimonial  warfare.  He 
served  with  us  on  directorial  boards ;  he 
made  one  of  our  number  at  whist.  It  was 
only  when  he  dined  with  us,  as  he  so  often 
did,  at  the  house  of  one  or  another,  that 
we  remembered  the  exceptionality  of  his 
situation  from  the  necessity  of  having  some 
one  in  to  "  balance  the  table."  He  was  one  of 


l8o  "WOULD   DICK  DO   THAT?" 

us,  naturally,  firmly,  completely ;  and  we  no 
more  thought  of  possibility  of  change  in  him 
than  change  in  anything  else. 

The  first  warning  was  as  weak,  as  misun 
derstood,  as  disregarded,  as  first  warnings 
usually  are — innocent,  easy,  unalarmed  men, 
we  knew  nothing  of  its  portent.  Mrs.  Har- 
pending  announced  that  her  niece  was  to 
stay  with  her  for  a  month  of  the  early  win 
ter.  This,  it  would  have  seemed  to  any  one, 
was  a  comparatively  insignificant  matter, 
certainly  nothing  to  shake  able-bodied  and 
sound-minded  gentlemen  with  alarm,  and, 
in  fact,  we  gave  no  particular  heed  to  it. 
We  felt  no  trepidation ;  we  received  the 
statement  with  something  even  like  delight. 
The  thought  of  having  a  bright,  pretty  girl 
about  was  not  unpleasing.  But  if  such  was 
our  perhaps  pardonable  obtuseness  then, 
what  can  extenuate  our  crass  stupidity  when 
we  were  not  panic  -  stricken  upon  the  first 
appearance  of  Miss  Edith  Armistead  her 
self  ?  The  event  took  place  at  a  small  din 
ner  given  by  the  unapprehensive  Colonel, 
absolutely  in  the  young  lady's  honor.  Old 
idiots  that  we  were,  we  must  have  lost  our 
heads  as  well  as  our  hearts  before  she  had 


"WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?"  181 

walked  half  across  the  room,  as  she  did, 
gracefully  rigid  in  her  slim  erectness,  for 
she  was  so  young  that  she  still  carried  her 
self  with  a  certain  charming  self-conscious 
ness.  We  were  her  slaves  from  that  moment 
—  metaphorically  prostrate  at  her  long,  nar 
row,  glittering  shoes.  We  were  wholly  with 
out  alarm.  There  was  a  piquancy  in  her 
prettiness  that  won  us  towards  her;  there 
was  a  charm  in  her  gracious  hesitancy  of 
manner  that  captivated  us ;  and  after  the 
dinner  we  chatted  on  to  each  other  about 
her  with  a  sort  of  semi-senile  garrulity.  We 
did  not  notice  it  at  the  time,  but  Fenwick 
sat  at  the  table  unusually  silent.  In  the 
drawing-room,  after  dinner,  we  surrounded 
her,  claimed  with  selfish  effrontery  every 
word  that  fell  from  her  lips,  and  appropri 
ated  every  glance  of  her  bright  young  eyes, 
so  that  he  could  not  speak  to  her.  Fen- 
wick  had  no  opportunity  during  the  entire 
evening  to  approach  her ;  but  when  the 
time  came  for  the  Harpendings  to  go,  he 
quite  annoyed  us  by  happening  to  be  in 
the  hall  and  going  with  them  to  their  car 
riage.  Even  then— perhaps  over-tickled  van 
ity  was  to  blame — not  a  man  of  us  was 
stricken  with  terror. 


182  "WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?" 

We  all  wanted  the  young  stranger  to 
have  a  good  time ;  and  in  our  middle-aged 
way  we  did  all  we  could  for  her.  We  each 
of  us  gave  her  a  dinner ;  and  the  Colonel,  in 
his  hot-headed  fashion,  got  up  what  he 
called  a  dance  for  her.  She  looked  radiant, 
and  she  assured  us,  in  her  pretty,  emphatic 
way,  that  she  had  enjoyed  herself  immensely ; 
but,  in  looking  back  on  the  affair,  I  am  afraid 
that  the  gayety  was  dismal,  the  delight  too 
decorous  for  her.  Of  course  Fenwick  was 
in  everything  that  was  going  on.  He  was 
our  only  young  man,  and  we  made  the 
most  of  him.  The  reckless  way  in  which 
those  young  persons  were  thrown  together 
was  something  without  parallel  in  the  long 
annals  of  human  fatuity.  Why,  we  favored 
it  ;  brought  it  about  ;  delighted  in  it !  Of 
course  we  knew  what  was  going  forward  ; 
we  even  thought  we  were  clever  to  find  it 
out.  We  knew  how  all  would  end  ;  we 
believed  we  were  profound  in  making  that 
discovery.  Each  of  us  felt  as  if  he  had 
part  and  lot  in  the  matter  himself.  We 
saw  them  walking  briskly  up  the  avenue  in 
the  brilliant,  opalescent,  autumn  afternoons ; 
we  saw  them  sitting,  suddenly  silent,  in  the 


"  WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT  ?"  183 

early  twilights  of  the  winter  evenings,  be 
fore  the  glowing  grate  ;  we  saw  them  talking 
in  low  tone,  away  from  every  brazen  glare 
of  light,  in  the  nights  of  the  holidays ; 
and  we  grew  sentimental,  and  thought  of 
our  own  long-ago  wooings  and  doings;  and 
in  eager  but  concealed  earnestness  revelled 
expansively  in  the  recollection  of  long-un- 
remembered  incidents.  The  Colonel,  coming 
upon  the  girl  quite  unexpectedly  as  she 
stood  upon  the  Harpending  stairway,  giving 
Fenwick  a  rose  from  those  which  lay  be 
side  her  plate  at  dinner,  remembered  how, 
years  before,  a  bunch  of  violets  had  been 
dropped  to  him  over  that  very  balustrade, 
and  telegraphed  the  next  morning  for  the 
brougham  which  only  the  day  before  he  had 
declared  would  be  a  useless  extravagance. 
The  milk  of  human  kindness  was  very  rich 
just  then,  and  there  mantled  upon  it  the 
cream  of  large-hearted  sympathy.  We  part 
ly  lived  in  one  of  those  provinces  where 
time  and  space  seem  held  suspended,  each 
in  a  sort  of  incomprehensible  solution  of 
the  other,  and  where  all  material  things 
are  shadowless.  We  were  then  witless  deni 
zens  of  a  region  of  belated  romance ;  and 


184  "WOULD    DICK   DO   THAT?" 

all  this  time  not  a  man  of  us  trembled 
in  definite  or  even  indefinite  apprehension. 

In  due  time  the  engagement  was  announced. 
Everybody  was  satisfied;  everybody  approved. 
He  was  well-born,  well-featured,  well-man 
nered,  and  more  than  well-to-do ;  and  she 
was  of  good  birth,  good-breeding,  and  much 
more  than  good  looks.  We  gave  her  con 
gratulations,  and  we  gave  her  flowers.  We 
were  delighted  that  we  were  to  have  one  so 
fresh,  so  cheery,  so  bright,  so  graceful,  so 
beautiful,  always  with  us,  for  of  course  they 
would  live  in  the  great  house  on  the  avenue, 
that  had  looked  so  dull,  so  desolate,  so  like  a 
prison  in  which  old  pleasures  were  serving  out 
life-sentences,  ever  since  the  death  of  Fen- 
wick's  grandfather. 

It  was  not  a  long  betrothment. 

One  bright  spring  morning  the  chimes  of 
old  St.  Barnabas's — the  old  church  which  the 
town,  in  its  growth  marching  away,  had  left 
in  the  heart  of  the  business  quarter — rang 
gayly  over  the  busy  streets ;  and  victorias 
and  coupes  filled  with  festal-clad  occupants 
struggled  through  cars  and  carts  and  wagons 
and  vans,  and  crushed  around  the  main  en 
trance  of  the  church,  the  very  drivers  good- 


"WOULD    DICK   DO   THAT?"  185 

humored  in  the  joy  of  the  occasion.  And 
then,  as  the  noonday  sun  fell  in  purple 
splendor  through  the  stained  glass,  Dr. 
Quartle,  who  had  married  all  of  us  and 
baptized  the  most  of  us,  pronounced  the 
final  solemn  words — hardly  second  in  their 
import  and  consequence  to  the  last  requiem 
ceternam,  for  beneath  them  two  lives  are 
ended  and  two  lives  begun — "Those  whom 
God  hath  joined  together  let  no  man  put 
asunder." 

We  loaded  the  bride  with  presents.  No 
artfulness  could  have  exceeded  that  with 
which  we  concealed  from  each  other  what 
we  were  to  do  in  that  line,  for — there  was 
more  meanness  than  magnanimity  in  the 
business — each  desired  to  excel  the  others. 
We  came  out  at  the  wedding  breakfast  in 
surprising  strength.  The  Colonel  especially 
was  effusive,  positive,  globose,  glorious,  in 
style  and  gesture. 

They  went  to  Europe  for  a  wedding  trip, 
and  were  gone  three  months.  We  were  un 
affectedly  glad  to  see  them  on  their  return, 
and  we  made  their  home-coming  something 
of  an  ovation.  Even  then  there  was  no  fore 
boding  of  the  trouble  to  come  ;  but  as  time 


i86  "WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?" 

passed,  and  we  began  to  return  to  the  old 
routine  of  our  lives,  which  before  had  been 
no  more  the  subject  of  thought  than  the 
constituents  of  the  atmosphere,  a  stealthy 
shadow,  a  dissatisfying  suspicion,  a  jar  as  if 
something  had  fallen  into  our  grooves,  and 
the  wheels  of  habit  struck  obstructing  nov 
elty — all  these  commingled  beset  us  and 
played  the  Incarnation  of  Evil  with  us.  The 
Honorable,  it  was  observed,  broke  off  in  a 
lucky  run  at  cards  and  went  home  at  eleven 
o'clock ;  the  Counsellor  now  rarely  took  the 
club  in  his  way  when  he  went  to  dinner; 
and  when  the  Colonel,  in  a  high  hat,  was 
caught  one  Sunday  morning  as  he  was  be 
ing  quietly  led  to  church,  it  was  plain  to  the 
meanest  understanding  that  some  powerful 
influence  was  at  work.  It  was  a  surprise,  a 
shock.  We  groped  blindly  for  the  cause  of 
such  disturbances,  and  we  found  it.  The 
discovery  came  about,  like  other  great  dis 
coveries,  by  accident.  In  the  lobby  of  a 
theatre  one  evening,  between  the  acts,  the 
Honorable  fell  into  interesting  discussion 
with  the  Editor,  and  left  Mrs.  Honorable 
alone  some  time,  while  the  play  went  on. 
He  hail  scarcely  taken  his  seat  by  her  side 


"WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?"  187 

again,  when  he  was  met  by  the  inquiry, 
''Would  Dick  do  that?" 

It  was  a  simple  thing,  but  it  was  all-suffi 
cient.  We  had  heard  those  innocent  words 
in  that  deadly  collocation  before.  We  un 
derstood. 

We  had  cultivated  a  poisonous  exotic ; 
we  had  nourished  a  viper  ;  we  had  created  a 
Frankenstein  that  had  turned  and  would 
rend  us.  Would  Dick  do  this,  that,  or  the 
other  thing?  We  heard  it  at  every  turn. 
Of  course  he  wouldn't  ;  and  what  were  we 
to  say  ?  To  urge  that  Dick  hadn't  been 
married  a  year,  to  plead  a  sort  of  reversed 
statute  of  limitation, was  something  instantly 
overruled  as  utterly  irrelevant ;  and  though 
in  our  blundering  way  we  thought  it  suffi 
cient,  there  was  a  lingering,  instinctive  logic 
about  us  that  did  make  it  seem  not  the  most 
tenable  thing  in  the  world.  We  dared  not 
raise  any  personal  point ;  it  would  be  con 
tempt  of  every  high  tribunal  that  tried  us. 
We  were  powerless,  answerless,  and  without 
effective  defence. 

"  Would  Dick  do  that  ?"  It  was  a  sort 
of  indirect  blackmail.  The  whole  structure 
of  our  habitual  existence  was  attacked ;  the 


1 88  "WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?" 

usages  of  ripened  lifetimes  were  threatened. 
We  were  to  abandon  the  second  or  third 
nature  that  we  had  so  sensibly  acquired,  and 
try  back  for  a  left-off  something,  a  never  so 
ber  reality,  with  which  we  had  had  nothing 
to  do  for  many  years.  Security  was  gone ; 
peace  might  be  destroyed.  And  all  this  be 
cause  a  young  man  was  glad  to  make  a  fool 
of  himself  about  a  young  woman.  Richard 
Garrard  Fenwick  might  be  regarded  as  some 
thing  approaching  a  public  nuisance,  and,  in 
objectionable  feature,  to  be  abated.  We 
came  to  look  upon  him  as  something  of  a 
traitor;  but  I  doubt  if  he  ever  noticed  our 
coolness — blind,  deluded  youngster.  What 
was  to  be  done  ?  Of  such  example  an  ex 
ample  must  be  made.  We  sat  upon  the 
question  that  memorable  afternoon,  for  to 
the  proposition  that  something  had  to  be 
done  there  was  not  a  dissenting  voice.  We 
felt  outraged,  betrayed,  trapped ;  and  were 
ready  for  immediate  action. 

"Got  a  cigar?"  asked  the  Counsellor,  ab 
ruptly.  As  no  one  had,  he  rang,  the  order  was 
given,  and  the  servant  returned  with  three 
boxes — our  respective  well-known  choices. 


"WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?"  igg 

The  Counsellor  took  his  cigar  determined 
ly,  the  Honorable  his  thoughtfully  ;  the  hand 
of  the  Colonel  was  stayed  when  half  put 
forth.  We  stared. 

"  Does  Dick — "  began  the  Counsellor. 

The  Colonel  actually  blushed.  "By  Chris 
topher!"  he  ejaculated,  interrupting  him,  and 
fulminating  his  every-day,  working  oath,"  I'll 
smoke  enough  in  the  next  twenty-four  hours 
to  make  up  for  the  week  I've  left  off." 

Silence  for  three  minutes.  The  Colonel 
smoked  grimly ;  the  Counsellor,  as  if  saga 
ciously  getting  up  something  like  statistics 
of  the  precise  situation  ;  the  Honorable,  with 
a  far-away  look. 

"  If  we  only,"  began  the  Honorable,  hesi 
tating,  as  if  he  had  brought  the  idea  from 
the  very  confines  of  human  intelligence — "  if 
we  only  could  bring  him  back  to  any  of  his 
old  ways!" 

"  Do  you  think,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  that 
we  could  do  anything?" 

"  Perhaps,"  said  the  Honorable. 

"  What  ?"  asked  the  Counsellor,  in  the 
tone  of  a  man  who  foresees  easy  overthrow 
of  impossible  propositions. 

"  Suppose — "  began  the  Honorable. 


igo  "  WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT  ?" 

"  Suppose  !"  said  the  Colonel,  imperative 
ly.  "  Don't  suppose — propose." 

"What  would  you  say,"  began  the  Hon 
orable,  with  none  of  that  impossible  bold 
ness  that  the  Colonel  demanded,  "  to  our  in 
viting  him,  one  after  another,  to  dinner  at 
the  club?" 

And  the  Colonel  brought  down  his  fist 
upon  his  knee — smote  himself,  as  did  Sam 
son  the  Philistines,  hip  and  thigh — and  de 
clared  that  if  the  thing  could  be  done,  the 
evil  would  be  as  the  rended  lion,  its  carcass 
filled  with  a  swarm  of  bees  and  honey,  or 
words  to  that  effect. 

"  But  suppose  we  should  ask  him  and  he 
wouldn't  come  ?" 

A  sudden  gloom  fell  on  the  company. 

"  Suppose  the  moon  declined  to  keep  its 
appointment  when  there  was  an  eclipse  of 
the  sun  to  come  off,"  said  the  Colonel,  scorn 
fully.  "  Do  you  suppose  that  Dick  Fenwick 
is  a  man  who  is  going  to  disturb  harmony, 
keep  clear  of  every  attraction,  escape  every 
force  that  has  kept  us  together  so  long?" 

"  Who  shall  begin  ?"  said  the  Counsellor 
abruptly. 

"You,"  said  the  Colonel. 


"WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?"  191 

"  No,"  said  the  Counsellor.  "  Let  the  dis 
coverer  of  the  remedy  have  the  honor  of  the 
initiative." 

"  Well,  if  it  must  be,"  replied  the  Honor 
able. 

And  so  it  was  settled,  and  so  the  unholy 
league  was  formed.  Each  of  us,  as  we  slunk 
out  of  the  club  that  night,  felt  as  if  he  had 
detected  himself  in  rather  a  small  conspir 
acy.  But  what  could  we  do?  In  the  midst 
of  an  asparagus  bed,  where,  out  of  rich  foun 
dation,  and  after  years  of  cultivation,  the 
succulent  shoots  thrust  up  their  heads, 
thick  -  necked,  in  luxurious  promise,  there 
had  sprung  up  the  evil  growth  that  shook 
over  all  its  delicate  and  deadly  blossoms. 

The  invitation  was  given,  and,  much  to 
our  surprise,  was  quickly  accepted.  We 
were  exultant.  When  the  Honorable,  the 
next  morning,  casually  announced  at  his 
breakfast  -  table,  and  from  behind  the  ram 
part  of  the  morning  paper,  that  he  was  go 
ing  to  dine  at  the  club,  he  was  met  by  a 
chilly  glance  that  usually  would  have  intimi 
dated  him  ;  but  when  he  carelessly  added, 
"  Oh,  Dick's  to  be  there  too,"  he  looked 
over  the  printed  escarpment  upon  an  aston- 


I92  "  WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT  ?" 

ished,  demoralized,  and  completely  routed 
force. 

But  though  the  evening  came,  Femvick 
did  not.  A  note  arrived  at  the  last  moment, 
while  we  stood  dumbly  waiting,  simply  say 
ing  that  he  was  kept  by  an  urgent  mat 
ter,  and  apologizing  for  his  absence.  The 
effect  was  instantaneous,  and  it  was  striking. 
As  the  letter  was  read,  a  sudden  depression 
fell  upon  us.  Nothing  could  so  quickly 
have  made  three  such  men  so  distinctly 
hypocrites.  The  Counsellor's  hilarity  was 
thin ;  the  airiness  of  the  Colonel  was  sin 
gularly  rarefied ;  the  Honorable's  vivacity, 
diaphanous. 

"  But  we  will  have  our  dinner,"  each  ejac 
ulated,  without  heart,  however,  in  the  dec 
laration.  After  it  was  made,  the  Colonel 
seemed  shrunken,  discouraged ;  the  Coun 
sellor  dwindled,  doubtful ;  the  Honorable 
collapsed,  disconsolate. 

The  thing  was  a  pitiful  failure — three  im 
becile  shams,  three  idiotic  pretenders,  taking 
a  meal ;  that  was  all.  We  praised  a  wine 
while  we  silently  condemned  Fenwick.  We 
found  fault  with  a.  plat  as  we  thought  of  the 
future.  Our  laughter  at  old  jokes  came  al- 


"WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?"  193 

most  as  harsh,  tomtom  sounds  in  celebration 
of  their  funerals.  We  cackled  a  fusillade  of 
cachinnations  in  salute  to  new  ones,  as  if 
those  of  which  we  had  been  fond  for  years 
were  as  nothing  in  comparison.  The  Hon 
orable  drank  a  little  too  much  wine,  and  was 
loquacious ;  the  Colonel  ate  too  little,  and 
was  silent ;  the  Counsellor  distinctly  re 
frained  from  doing  either,  and  his  usual 
doubts  and  dubitations  ran  into  captious- 
ness  and  disputation.  And  if  in  Fenwick's 
unoccupied  chair  there  did  not  plainly  sit 
all  the  time  a  silently  upbraiding  ghost,  clad 
in  a  fog -dampened  mourning  veil,  it  was 
because  outraged  domesticity  is  not  a  per- 
sonifiable  quality.  However,  there  was 
something  in  the  nothing  before  us  won 
derfully  potent  and  depressing.  The  affair 
came  to  a  sudden  and  infestive  end.  We 
parted  in  gloom,  and  took  our  separate 
ways  home,  *• 

"  And  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow." 

The  next  afternoon  we  met  at  the  club 
as  usual.  If  former  meetings  had  been  de 
spondent,  this  was  despairing. 

"  Well?"  asked  the  Colonel. 
13 


IQ4  "WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?" 

"  I  didn't  happen  to  mention  it  at  home 
that  Fenwick  didn't  come,"  confessed  the 
Honorable. 

"  Nor  I,"  said  the  Counsellor. 

"  Nor  I,"  growled  the  Colonel. 

Profound  silence  fell  around  us  heavily, 
like  lowered  sails,  like  dropped  curtains. 
The  great  wood  fire  crackled  impudently, 
with  aggravating  cheerfulness. 

"What's  to  be  done?"  was  stared  and 
spoken. 

"  Wait,  and  try  again,"  said  the  Colonel, 
stubbornly. 

"  It's  your  turn  next,"  said  the  Honor 
able  to  the  Counsellor. 

For  the  next  few  days  we  were  pitiable 
objects.  We  were  moody,  testy,  often  fidg 
ety,  frequently  stolid,  all  the  time  unfit  for 
sensible  occupation.  We  aimlessly  wan 
dered  to  the  club  at  unusual  hours,  as  beset 
people  visit  the  scenes  of  their  crimes  and 
misfortunes.  There  sprang  up  a  slight 
something  like  antipathy  towards  each  other, 
for  there  is,  after  all,  recognized  dishonor 
among  small  complotters ;  we  felt  a  new 
and  guilty  liking  for  each  other,  for  there  is 
sympathy  between  even  petty  malefactors. 


"WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?"  195 

But  declension  in  evil  is  swift,  and  calamity 
comes  as  the  whirlwind. 

We  awaited  Fenwick's  answer  to  the  Coun 
sellor's  invitation  with  more  than  anxiety. 
For  a  whole  day  and  a  half  no  reply  came. 
We  exulted  over  a  favorable  response  with 
a  feeling  for  which  we  despised  ourselves. 
Again  the  night  came,  but  again  no  Fen- 
wick  ;  only  a  note  expressing  a  pressing 
urgency  and  a  regret.  We  were  alarmed, 
intimidated.  Richard  Garrard  Fenwickwas 
the  very  pink  of  punctiliousness,  and  yet  he 
had  disposed  of  us,  dispensed  with  the  Coun 
sellor's  dinner,  with  mere  phraseology  worn 
so  thin  as  to  have  lost  all  meaning.  But  we 
choked  down  our  wrath  and  our  fears,  and 
we  choked  down  our  dinner.  There  was 
not  even  a  pretence  of  hilarity.  We  almost 
growled,  in  our  general  ill-temper,  at  each 
other,  and  were  afterwards  guilty  of  apologet 
ic  tones,  which  should  have  been  worse  af 
fronts  than  the  words  they  sought  to  soften. 

We  had  not  told  our  wives  of  Fenwick's 
second  absence.  In  not  telling  the  whole 
truth  to  the  partners  of  our  souls  and  leav 
ing  all  to  their  generous  remedy,  we  were 
husband-like,  and  we  made  a  great  mistake. 


IQ6  "WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?" 

Alas,  we  know  it  now !  When  we  expati 
ated  upon  the  delights  of  the  two  dinners, 
those  ladies  displayed  an  indifference  which 
would  have  ruffled  the  equable  temper  of 
Mephistopheles  and  broken  the  placidity 
of  Melancthon.  We  grew  spiritless,  apa 
thetic.  Were  our  homes  to  be  destroyed  by 
this  thing?  Were  there  even  to  be  no  more 
pleasant,  inspiriting  matrimonial  differences? 
Were  we  to  be  of  such  little  consequence 
as  to  be  incapable  of  exciting  even  feminine 
curiosity  ? 

"  We've  gone  too  far,"  said  the  Colonel, 
at  our  customary  conclave,  "  to  give  up. 
We  must  fight  it  out  on  this  line  if  it  takes 
all  winter.  I'll  ask  him  to  dinner  myself. 
If  he  don't  come — "  The  Colonel  paused. 
His  imagination  is  not  vivid.  It  is  a  thick 
set,  rather  solid  faculty ;  but  when  it  sees 
anything,  it  sees  it  plain,  and  the  vision  now 
before  his  mind's  eye  was  evidently  one 
that  killed  expression. 

"  We  must  strike  for  our  whist -table  and 
our  club  fire,"  said  the  Counsellor. 

"  Each  shall  otherwise  be  as  the  family 
cat,  without  the  privilege  of  nocturnal  ab 
sence,"  said  the  Honorable. 


"  WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?"  197 

We  made  this  last  effort  with  the  inward 
fear  that  belongs  to  desperate  attempts. 
We  risked  a  great  deal  on  the  issue.  Our 
peace  abroad  and  our  security  at  home  de 
pended  upon  it.  Success  was  of  vital  im 
portance,  and  we  did  everything  to  insure 
it.  The  Colonel  sent  a  written  invitation ; 
the  others  had  been  verbal.  I  think  that 
if  Fenwick  had  declined  it,  we  would  almost 
have  felt  relief,  to  such  tension  had  our 
nerves  been  brought.  But  he  accepted  it, 
and  his  acceptance  carried  consternation. 
Now  had  the  crucial  time  come.  This  sort 
of  thing  could  not  go  on  forever;  if  on  this 
occasion  he  did  not  appear  in  person,  our 
threefold  duplicity  must  destroy  us.  We 
fell  in  that  innocent  man's  way,  forced  from 
him  expressions  in  which  were  implied 
promises  that  he  would  certainly  dine  with 
us  this  time.  We  lured  him  on  with  de 
scriptions  of  what  we  were  to  expect,  which 
were  to  the  succinct  statements  of  a  menu 
as  Swinburne  is  to  Crabbe. 

Then  came  the  eventful  evening. 

"  I  haven't  heard  a  word  yet,"  said  the 
Colonel,  in  a  low  tone,  but  with  assuring  in 
tensity  as  he  shook  each  of  us  by  the  hand. 


IQ8  "WOULD   DICK  DO   THAT?" 

And  there  we  stood,  three  perturbed  men, 
trustful  and  yet  afraid. 

Five  minutes  of  seven.  Fenwick  certainly 
would  not  fail  us  now. 

Every  considerable  city  has  its  peculiar 
feature,  its  own  special  aspect.  Rotten  Row 
on  a  bright  afternoon  of  the  hot  and  hurried 
season ;  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens  on  some 
spacious,  starry  night,  when  the  cosmopol 
itan  crowd  saunters  along  with  lingering 
steps ;  Fifth  Avenue  upon  a  Sunday  noon 
of  April,  when  lagging  thousands  stroll 
and  stare ;  Pennsylvania  Avenue  at  eleven 
o'clock  in  the  morning  of  a  bright  Janu 
ary  day,  when  more  marked  and  really 
representative  men  are  scattered  along  the 
walks  than  in  any  other  such  place  at  any 
usual  time — these  are  instances  of  places  and 
scenes,  each  with  special  characteristics  and 
significance  wholly  its  own.  To  our  great 
Northern  cities,  however,  there  belongs  one 
distinctively  brilliant  display  that  has  not 
gained  the  fame  it  deserves,  and  which  in 
brightness,  animation,  and  inspiriting  in 
fluence  will  hold  its  own  in  the  widest  com 
parison.  In  none  does  it  find  more  spark- 


"WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?"  199 

ling,  enlivening,  effective  presentation  than 

in   Andros.      Alaska  Avenue   on   a  winter 

• 

afternoon,  when  the  snow  has  fallen  and  the 
sleighing  is  good,  is  as  characteristic  as  any 
sight  the  world  knows.  The  day  should  be 
clear,  brilliant,  cold,  and  still.  The  snow 
should  be  deep,  but  not  too  deep,  and  packed 
along  the  driveway  until  it  is  as  a  softer  ice, 
as  an  easily  malleable  silver,  a  little  chased 
and  fretted,  and  striped  as  if  etched  with  in 
termixing  lines.  The  time  should  be  about 
four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Then  along 
the  broad  street,  where  stand  on  either  side, 
block  after  block,  stately  houses  giving  as 
surance  of  the  warmth,  the  soft  light,  the 
luxuriousness  within,  move  up  and  down 
crowding  sleighs  in  double  rows ;  gay  Russian 
sledges,  with  streamers  flying  as  the  horse 
tails  that  Sobieski  captured  flashed  before 
Vienna ;  staid  old  family  affairs,  large  and 
comfortable,  and  all  crowded  with  humanity ; 
these  overflowing  with  children,  those  filled 
with  young  girls — their  beauty  brightened, 
burnished,  by  the  clear  air — laughing  and 
eager.  Furs  seem  to  boil  over  the  edges  of 
the  sleighs,  to  flow  behind  them,  as  though 
they  were  ripples — racing  wakes  in  the  slow- 


200  "WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?" 

moving  current.  It  is  a  glorious  pageant,  a 
striking  spectacle,  a  quick,  changing,  glitter 
ing,  scintillant  scene,  charged  with  strong 
vitality.  Between  the  counter  -  moving 
streams  on  either  side  of  the  street  dash,  in 
hardly  intermittent  flight,  "cutters  "  wonder 
ful  in  their  spidery  anatomy,  torn  along  by 
high-couraged,  deep -lunged,  clean-limbed 
horses — trotters  such  as  might  chip  atoms  of 
seconds  off  what  was  thought  a  great  record 
in  the  not  remote  past.  This  is  the  electric 
current,  these  the  constant  flashes  that  thrill 
everything,  start  the  heart's  beat,  suffuse 
the  cheeks,  quicken  the  pulse,  stir  the 
nerves.  And  the  cheery  din,  the  hum  that 
is  everywhere,  the  bells  jingling  in  the  tam 
bourine  to  which  the  minutes  dance,  the 
whir  of  the  rushing  cutters,  the  cries,  the 
yells  to  the  horses,  the  "  Take  care  theres !" 
the  "Get  out  of  the  ways!"  the  hurrahs,  the 
shouts  of  the  on-looking  crowd — all  these, 
mingled,  are  among  the  causes  that  give 
gayety,  glee,  hilarity,  to  the  time.  Har 
nesses  sparkle;  the  varnished  sleighs  shine 
like  great  beetles.  Shadows  gather  in  deep 
er  blue  across  the  snow;  the  windows  of  the 
west-facing  houses  blaze  in  vermilion  glory. 


"WOULD   DICK  DO   THAT?  201 

Inspiriting  sound,  quickening  motion,  every 
thing  is  intensified  by  the  consciousness  all 
have  of  vivid,  human  presence. 

Everybody  was  "out."  The  Colonel  was 
there  with  a  great  raw-boned,  ewe-necked 
animal  called  Lucifer,  the  very  ideal  of 
equine  ugliness,  but  which,  though  "awk 
ward  at  startin',''  as  the  groom  said,  when 
once  off,  flung,  seemed  to  scatter,  those  large 
hoofs  of  his  quicker,  farther  along  the  road, 
than  most,  if  not  all,  of  those  who  tried  speed 
with  him.  The  Honorable  was  there  with 
a  nervous  liftle  bay,  able  almost  always  to 
"hang"  pertinaciously  upon  the  rear  of  al 
most  "  anything  going,"  and  often,  and  in 
contest  with  those  among  the  best,  to  show 
neatly  and  clearly  ahead.  The  Counsellor 
was  behind  a  well-tried,  long-trusted  gray 
that  always  did  well,  and  sometimes  did  won 
ders.  These  were  all  old  favorites  —  fore 
most  in  estimation  among  perhaps  fifty 
others,  with  many  of  whom  they  had  been 
or  would  be,  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon, 
called  upon  or  compelled  to  compete.  But 
on  this  particular  occasion  there  was  prom 
ise  of  something  new  and  of  exceptional 
interest.  It  was  understood  that  Fenwick 


202  "WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT? 

was  to  bring  out  a  new  horse  raised  at  his 
own  country  place,  and  of  which  we  all  had 
heard  not  a  little.  The  Colonel,  who  had 
all  winter  "led  the  avenue,"  feared  that  even 
Lucifer  would  have  to  take  second  place, 
when  Hoyden  should  flash,  as  if  on  the 
swallow's  wing,  along  the  course.  Interest 
rose  to  excitement  almost,  as  the  afternoon 
ran  along  and  Fenwick  did  not  appear. 

"Why  don't  he  come?"  growled  the 
Colonel,  walking  the  steaming  Lucifer,  after 
a  victorious  burst  of  half  a  mile,  as  the 
cutter  of  the  Honorable  and  his  bay  drew 
abreast.  "Is  he  waiting  until  our  horses 
are  tired  out?" 

"Would  Dick  do—" 

One  vicious  cut  across  Lucifer's  flank, 
and  the  Colonel  was  off,  his  horse  in  a  canter 
for  half  a  block ;  and  when  we  reached  the 
end  of  the  course,  there  was  the  Colonel 
grimly  waiting  for  us.  We  were  just  get 
ting  into  irregular  line,  when  there  was  a 
shout,  "There  he  is!" 

Hoyden  looked  perfection  in  build  and 
action.  Nothing  with  keener  vitality  ever 
ran  or  flew.  She  appeared  eager  for  what 
was  before  her,  to  know  it  all  at  view,  as  a 


"WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?"  203 

young  girl  knows  her  first  ball,  a  youngster 
his  first  battle.  Behind  the  mare  sat,  in  a 
nautilus  of  a  cutter,  Richard  Garrard  Fen- 
wick,  calm  as  a  conjurer,  innocent  as  a 
hotel  clerk.  Every  one  of  us  knew  at  a 
glance  what  was  to  come ;  every  horse 
seemed  to  feel  it.  We  were  all  silent.  Ev 
ery  energy  must  be  put  forth ;  not  a  turn 
of  skill  lost.  Even  Hoyden  seemed  im 
pressed  and  quieted  by  the  importance  of 
what  was  to  be  done.  She  glided  into  line 
as  mademoiselle  takes  her  place  in  her  first 
cotillon. 

And  then — no  spoken  signal  was  given 
— our  hearts  seemed  simultaneously  to  leap 
in  response  to  some  unuttered  "Go,"  and 
we  were  away. 

There  is  something  peculiarly  exciting  in 
a  race  over  the  snow.  The  white  lies  all 
around,  objectless  almost  as  is  the  atmos 
phere,  and  you  seem  to  fly  over  it  and 
through  mere  space.  Silently,  with  only 
the  chiming  bells  and  quick  breathing  of 
the  panting  horses  in  your  ears,  you  are 
borne  along  through  .the  cutting  blast, 
giddy  with  the  motion.  You  drink  the 
air,  and  it  is  as  champagne  poured  from 


204  "WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?" 

out  the  bottle  lined  with  its  thin  ice  incrus 
tation.  You  are  gladdened,  inflamed,  by 
the  zest  of  contest. 

The  course  on  the  avenue  from  start  to 
finish  is  a  little  more  than  a  mile  long.  The 
Colonel  had  a  slight  lead  at  starting ;  the 
Honorable  and  the  Counsellor  were  side  by 
side,  with  Fenwick  almost  a  length  behind. 
At  Omicron  Street  the  positions  were 
hardly  changed ;  but  before  the  next  block 
was  passed,  Fenwick  was  even  with  the 
Honorable  and  the  Counsellor.  The  speed 
was  terrific.  The  rows  of  sleighs  lost  form 
and  detail  in  one  blurred  blending ;  they 
ran  behind  us  on  either  side  like  bright- 
colored  ribbons.  The  snow  flew  from  the 
quick  hoofs  in  blinding  clouds  into  our 
faces.  Cheers  grew  before  us,  softened  be 
hind  us,  as  we  came  on.  All  in  the  track 
made  way  for  us,  and,  after  we  had  passed, 
pulled  up,  and  gazed  after  us;  all  made 
way — and  yet,  veteran  of  the  course  as  the 
Honorable  was,  his  cutter  just  grazed  the 
pole  of  the  huge  Harpending  sleigh,  pro 
jected  a  little  out  of  the  line. 

At  Omega  Street  Fenwick  had  passed 
the  Honorable  and  the  Counsellor,  and  to 


"WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?"  205 

them  the  race  was  lost.  But  Lucifer  was 
still  ahead.  There  had  not  been  a  "break" 
yet.  The  peculiar,  regular  action  which 
makes  the  fast  trotter  appear  impelled  by 
some  nicely  adjusted,  perfectly  regulated 
mechanism — the  motion  that  suggests  the 
strong  walking-beam,  the  quick  hair-spring, 
rather  than  the  action  of  less  regular,  more 
unreliable  muscle — had  not  been  disturbed 
in  either  horse.  Hoyden  was  gaining.  How 
the  Colonel  knew  this  it  is  hard  to  say,  for 
he  did  not  turn  his  head.  He  can  distin 
guish  no  significant  word  in  the  wild  hulla 
baloo  around  him.  But  he  does  know  it,  and 
he  bends  further  forward,  and,  for  the  first 
time  since  the  start,  Lucifer  feels,  but  feels 
lightly,  the  lash.  Now  Hoyden's  nostrils 
glow  and  quiver  at  the  Colonel's  elbow  ; 
now  flecks  of  foam  are  cast  across  his  ex 
tended,  rigid  arms ;  now  the  mare's  small, 
clear-lined  head  reaches  beyond  his  cut 
ter,  and  it  is  evident  that  the  horses  will 
soon  be  neck  and  neck.  They  are  nearing 
the  finish,  the  place  where,  at  the  crossing 
of  Iroquois  and  Alaska  avenues,  there  is  a 
small  circle.  Here  the  crowd  is  the  densest, 
the  confusion  the  greatest.  The  sleighs  scat- 


206  "WOULD  DICK  DO   THAT?" 

ter  right  and  left,  that  the  opening  may 
be  wider;  those  on  foot  —  and  there  are 
many  here  —  press  forward,  that  they  may 
miss  nothing  of  the  end,  Is  Hoyden  up 
with  Lucifer?  Is  she?  It  would  need  the 
two  parallel  wires  to  tell  that  as  they  sweep 
on.  The  Colonel  is  almost  lying  on  the 
dash-board.  But  desperation  has  snatched 
victory  before  now.  The  Colonel  slightly 
rises  in  his  seat ;  the  whip  has  further  reach ; 
he  shouts  to  Lucifer  as  if  he  hated  the 
beast;  and —  But  it  is  too  much  ;  Lucifer 
can  do  no  more.  He  "  breaks  " — breaks  badly 
— and  Hoyden,  excited — for  there  is  known 
to  her  now  but  the  one  thing,  speed — flies 
past  and  into  the  circle,  still  at  racing  pace. 
A  large  sleigh,  heavily  loaded  with  coal, 
that  never  should  have  been  allowed  in  such 
a  place,  has  ploughed  its  slow  way  along 
Iroquois  Avenue,  and  now  has  almost 
crossed  Alaska.  It  is  almost  past;  but 
there  is  a  cry  of  terror — a  crash — a  crowd's 
awful  articulation;  the  beautiful  mare  gal 
lops  on  alone  with  flying  traces.  And  there, 
on  the  snow,  lies  Fenwick,  motionless,  a  clot 
of  blood  on  his  white  forehead. 


"WOULD   DICK  DO   THAT?"  207 

If,  as  has  been  said  with  an  iteration  that, 
though  it  deprives  the  simile  of  the  merit 
of  novelty,  certainly  gives  it  the  respectabil 
ity  of  usage,  we  are  all  actors  in  this  life, 
we  are  assuredly  like  the  players  in  Hamlet, 
"  the  best  actors  in  the  world,  either  for 
tragedy,  comedy,  history,  pastoral,  pastoral- 
comical,  historical-pastoral,  tragical-histori 
cal,  tragical-comical-historical-pastoral."  We 
can  play  all  and  everything,  and  we  do  it. 
But  the  worst  of  it  is  that  the  world  is 
stocked  with  such  a  miserable,  makeshift 
company  that  we  have  often  to  "  double  " 
our  parts— as  it  were  playing  the  ghost  and 
the  grave-digger  in  the  same  evening.  No 
more  "lightning  change"  from  the  sock  to 
the  cothurn  was  ever  made  in  life's  drama 
than  our  small  company  made  that  wintry 
afternoon. 

Fenwick  had  been  unconscious  ever  since 
he  had  been  hurled  on  the  hard,  ice-covered 
asphalt,  and  the  Doctor  could  not  or  would 
not  say  how  dangerous  the  injury  was.  We 
all,  in  some  inexplicable  way,  felt  responsible 
for  the  accident.  As  we  carried  him  up 
the  wide  steps  of  his  own  house,  his  eyes 
were  closed,  and  his  limbs,  uncontrolled 


20S  "WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?" 

by  volition,  seemed  to  fall  with  added 
weight.  How  could  we  face  the  young  wife 
against  whom  we  had  been  plotting?  As  we 
entered  the  door,  "  Miss  Edith" — we  had  al 
ways  called  her  "  Miss  Edith,"  even  after  her 
marriage — came  down  the  stairs  with  quick, 
gliding  step.  She  uttered  a  sudden,  startled 
cry,  and  was  by  his  side  in  an  instant. 

"  Here,"  she  said ;  and  we  placed  him  on 
the  great  couch  beside  the  big  hall  fire-place. 
She  had  fallen  on  her  knees,  and  taken  one 
of  his  limp,  cold  hands  in  both  of  hers. 

"  Will  he  die?"  she  asked,  in  a  whisper. 

The  Doctor  affected  not  to  hear  her. 

"And,"  she  moaned,  "when  he  went 
away  I  was  angry  with  him,  and  he  with 
me,  and  I  have  not  seen  him  since !" 

Fenwick  never  looked  so  handsome  as  he 
did  lying  there,  his  face  pallid,  with  illu 
minating  blood-marks,  and  his  white,  flaccid 
hands  resting  upon  the  great  fur  rug. 

"  Why  did  you  ask  him  to  your  cruel 
dinner?" 

The  thumb-screw  of  remorse  was  given  a 
new  turn.  It  was  about  our  dinner  they 
had  had  their  quarrel,  perhaps  their  first. 

'•'  But    he    didn't    go,"    blurted    out    the 


"WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT?"  209 

Colonel,  in  his  eagerness  to  make  amends 
for  our  action. 

"  Didn't  go !"  she  repeated,  softly.  "  But 
what  did  he  do?  I  did  not  see  him." 

We  were  dazed,  bewildered ;  the  basis  of 
our  calculations  destroyed ;  the  premises  of 
our  conclusions  swept  away. 

"  He  must  have  been  very,  very  angry, 
then,"  she  continued.  "  I  didn't  like  to  have 
him  go  to  the  others,  and  he  did  not.  At 
the  last  minute,  I  wanted  him  so  much  not 
to  go  to  this  too,  because  it  was  the  anni 
versary  of  the  day  we  first  saw  each  other ; 
but  he  said  he  must,  because  he  had  refused 
the  others.  And  I  insisted,  and  he — "  She 
bowed  her  head  in  silence  over  his  hand. 
"  It  was  our  first  real  trouble,"  she  said, 
looking  up ;  "  and  now — and  now  we  can 
never  make  it  up." 

The  homely  phrase  struck  at  our  heart  : 
"make  it  up."  There  Fenwick  lay,  with 
motionless  body  and  obstructed  brain,  in 
capable  of  action ;  unable  perhaps  forever 
to  give  even  that  pressure  of  the  hand,  or 
utter  the  one  simple  word  that  might  mean 
reconciliation,  and  without  which  parting 
would  be  made  so  much  the  harder.  And 


210  "WOULD  DICK  DO   THAT?" 

we  were  partly  to  blame  for  it  all.  In  the 
light  of  our  responsibility,  "Miss  Edith's" 
grief  was  almost  unbearable,  and  we  would 
gladly  have  departed,  but  some  sense  of 
atonement  held  us  chained  to  the  spot. 

"Will  he  not  speak  for  a  moment?"  she 
went  on,  turning  again  to  the  Doctor. 

But  no  warmth  appeared  in  the  pallid 
face,  no  gleam  of  intelligence  shone  in 
those  staring  eyes. 

The  gas-lights  were  just  springing  to  life 
along  the  darkening  avenue  ;  at  rare  inter 
vals  came  the  jingle  of  sleigh-bells.  The 
revellers  of  the  afternoon  had  departed,  and 
the  street  was  almost  deserted.  It  was  an 
hour  such  as  none  of  the  party  assembled 
had  ever  passed,  but  so  personal  and  absorb 
ing  were  the  interests  that  none  at  the  time 
realized  its  dramatic  intensity.  Minute  after 
minute  we  stood  waiting  for  those  pale  lips, 
that  might  soon  stiffen  into  immobility,  to 
utter  some  intelligible  word. 

It  was  hardly  articulate.  Was  it  a  sudden 
exclamation  ?  Was  it  a  hysterical  laugh  ? 

Fenwick  wearily  rose  upon  his  elbow  and 
looked  around.  "Hello  !"  he  said.  "Edith! 
Why,  what  has  happened  ?" 


"WOULD  DICK  DO  THAT?  211 

"  Lie  down,"  she  said,  gently.  "  You  must. 
You  have  been  hurt," 

"  I  remember,"  he  said,  less  faintly — "  the 
race.  Did  I  beat  the  Colonel?" 

"  Yes,  dear,"  she  answered.  "  But  you 
must  be  quite  still," 

Fenwick  was  not  dead;  on  the  contrary, 
very  much  alive.  How  joyfully  our  guilty 
hearts  beat  in  their  unshackled  freedom  ! 

"  Oh,  Dick,"  she  said,  "if  anything  should 
have  happened  !  Do  you  remember?  Will 
you  forgive  me  ?" 

Without  the  impassiveness,  but  with  all 
the  intrusiveness,  of  a  Greek  chorus,  the 
abashed  and  conscience-stricken  conspirators 
gazed  upon  the  scene. 

"  Forgive  you  ?"  he  said.  "  I  acted  like 
a  brute.  What  did  I  care  for  their  dinner  ? 
But  I  was  ashamed  of  myself  afterwards,  sent 
a  note  to  say  that  I  could  not  come,  and 
came  back  to  find  you  gone." 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  remorsefully ;  "  you 
left  me  alone,  and  I  was  very  indignant,  and 
I  went  to  the  Harpendings'.  I  am  so  sorry!" 

"  I  shut  myself  up  in  the  smoking-room, 
and  slept  there  until  two  o'clock.  You  did 
not  come  down  this  morning,  and  so — " 


212  "  WOULD   DICK   DO   THAT  ?" 

"  Oh,  Dick  !  if  you  had  never  been  able 
to  tell  me  !"  she  cried.  "  I  shall  never  let 
you  go  away  when  you  are  angry  again." 

Though  neither  "  Dick  "  nor  "  Miss  Edith" 
knew  that  we  were  present,  one  by  one  we 
stole  quietly  from  the  room. 

The  next  day  we  called  upon  Mrs.  Rich 
ard  Garrard  Fenwick  in  a  body,  and  formally 
and  frankly  "  owned  up." 

"  And  you  never  have  told  that  he  did 
not  come?"  she  said. 

"  No,"  we  answered,  contritely. 

"  That  was  very  wrong.' 

We  tried  to  explain. 

"Would  Dick  do  that?"  she  asked,  re 
provingly. 

We  all  shuddered. 

"  And  others  must  believe  that  three — 
three — " 

"  Old  fools,"  suggested  the  Colonel. 

"  Middle  -  aged  gentlemen,"  continued 
"  Miss  Edith,"  politely,  "  were  able  to  lead 
Dick  away  ?" 

We  appeared  dubious. 

"  Must  I  sacrifice  my  pride  in  order  that 
you  may  escape  ?" 


"  WOULD   DICK  DO   THAT  ?"  213 

We  gazed  at  her  entreatingly. 

"  You  have  all,"  she  said,  severely,  "  been 
very  thoughtless  and  wicked;  but  I  will  never 
tell,  if  you  promise  never  to  do  anything 
like  it  again." 

We  assured  her,  with  a  vehemence  that 
could  not  but  carry  conviction  of  our  sin 
cerity,  that  we  would  not. 

"  Then,"  she  said,  "  I  forgive  you." 

She  had  wound  us  around  her  slim  white 
fingers  long  before  ;  now  she  has  us  under 
her  rosy  thumb.  But  she  uses  her  power 
mercifully.  It  is  a  question  whether  we  do 
not  wish  that  she  was  more  exacting,  so  glad 
are  we  of  an  opportunity  to  do  anything 
for  her. 


-THE  DRAGONESS" 


'THE  DRAGONESS" 


REALLY,"  said  Mrs.  Abernethy,  help 
lessly,  as  she  sat  at  the  dinner-table 
one  evening,  so  long  after  Christmas  that  the 
character  of  the  winter  could  be  definitely 
determined  as  decidedly  "  gay,"  but  yet  so 
far  removed  from  Lent  that  many  events  of 
importance  were  still  to  come  off,  and  there 
was  much  that  might  make  anticipation 
vivid,  "  I  don't  know  what  I  am  to  do  about 
Ruth.  If  we  go  South  next  week,"  she 
continued,  gazing  at  so  much  of  her  hus 
band  as  was  visible  through  the  spaces 
left  by  the  intervening  objects,  "  I  cannot, 
worn  out  as  I  am,  undertake  to  look  after  her 
in  St.  Augustine,  and  I  am  sure  I  don't  see 
how  we  can  leave  her  here." 

"Oh, "said  Abernethy, with  a  certain  after- 
dinner  indifference,  "  she'd  do  well  enough, 
I've  no  doubt,  if  she  stayed  in  the  house  all 
alone." 


2i8  "  THE   DRAGONESS  " 

"  But  think  how  highly  improper !"  ex 
claimed  Mrs.  Abernethy,  thoroughly  shocked ; 
"  she  certainly  must  have  some  older  person 
with  her.  She  is  so  thoughtless;  and  there 
is  Mrs.  '  Tom  '  ;  and  then  there  is  Harold 
Redmond." 

Abernethy  nodded  abstractedly.  He  had 
already,  and  it  was  only  Thursday,  used  up 
the  three  excuses  that  regularly  gave  him 
three  nights  a  week  at  the  club,  and  was 
very  busy  trying  to  devise  some  scheme 
that  might  serve  to  give  him  freedom  on 
this  evening  as  well.  As  he  was  not  an 
imaginative  man,  he  was  having  rather  a 
hard  time  of  it. 

"  I  cannot  think  of  any  one,"  went  on 
Mrs.  Abernethy,  not  conscious  of  her  hus 
band's  extraordinary  mental  efforts.  "  I 
wouldn't  mind  if  Andros  was  the  place  that 
it  used  to  be,  but  it  has  changed  so  that 
you  never  can  tell  what  is  going  to  happen. 
Since  Mrs.  '  Tom  '  Dallison  and  the  fast  set 
have  sprung  up,  I  consider  that  society  has 
very  much  deteriorated.  Think  how  differ 
ent  it  once  was !" 

"  In  the  dark  ages,"  said  her  husband. 

"  You  may  call  them  the  dark  ages  if  you 


"  THE  DRAGONESS  "  219 

like,  but  society  was  respectable  then  at 
least.  I  consider  that  Mrs.  Dallison  has 
been  a  most  evil  influence.  Of  course  we 
cannot  do  anything,  for  she  was  Virginia 
Rereton,  and  we  were  all  most  intimate  with 
her  dear  mother.  But  if  she  were  not  a 
Rereton  I  certainly  would  not  receive  her; 
and  I  often  wonder  how  that  little  girl, 
whom  I  can  remember  perfectly  as  the  qui 
etest,  shyest  little  thing,  can  have  become 
the  fast,  absolutely  fast,  woman  she  is." 

"  Oh,  come,  now;  everything  makes  faster 
time  than  it  used  to  do,  from  horses  and 
ocean  liners  to — " 

"She  need  not  be  so  excessive,"  said  Mrs. 
Abernethy,  decidedly.  "  I  have  been  always 
opposed  to  letting  Ruth  have  anything  to 
do  with  her,  and  have  steadily  discouraged 
the  intimacy." 

Abernethy  said  nothing. 

"  But  this  doesn't  help  me  to  determine 
what  I  am  to  do  with  Ruth.  I  wish  every 
day  that  she  hadn't  been  left  in  my  care. 
Poor  Fanny  might  have  made  Clara  her 
guardian ;  perhaps  she  might  know  how  to 
manage  a  young  woman  that  was  emancipfa 
and  an  heiress." 


220  "  THE  DRAGONESS  " 

"  Why  not  have  Maria  here?" 

"  Why,  yes,"  began  Mrs.  Abernethy, 
slowly.  And  then  she  went  on  briskly : 
"  The  very  thing !  How  clever  of  you  to 
think  of  it !  You  know  I  always  said  that 
your  common-sense  did  at  times  amount  to 
brilliancy.  I  have  always  wished  to  have 
her  here,  but  I  have  never  had  a  chance 
before.  I  received  a  letter  only  to-day  from 
her  mother — " 

Before  Mrs.  Abernethy  could  proceed,  the 
sharp,  quick  bark  of  a  dog  was  heard  in  the 
next  room ;  the  quick  rustle  of  a  dress  be 
came  distinctly  audible,  the  half-opened  door 
was  thrown  wholly  back,  and  a  young  girl, 
dressed  evidently  for  a  ball,  and  very  much 
out  of  breath,  entered,  in  pursuit  of  a  fox- 
terrier  puppy. 

"  Ruth,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Abernethy,  look 
ing  up,  "what  is  the  matter?" 

"  He's  got  my  slipper,"  said  the  girl,  con 
tinuing  the  chase  around  the  table,  "  and  I 
can't  get  it  away  from  him." 

Mrs.  Abernethy  continued  to  gaze  with 
unconcealed  disapproval  upon  the  animated 
pursuit,  and  when  the  terrier,  finally  driven 
into  the  recess  formed  by  the  window,  had 


"  THE  DRAGONESS  "  221 

yielded  up  his  prize  with  a  short  yelp,  she 
spoke  with  some  stiffness. 

"  Ruth,"  she  said,  "  I  wish  you  could  give 
us  your  attention  for  a  moment." 

"  Yes,  auntie,"  said  the  girl,  thrusting  back 
her  bright,  light  hair,  and  glancing  with 
brilliant  eyes  at  the  clock.  "  But  they'll  be 
here  for  me  in  five  minutes.  We  go  to  the 
theatre  before  the  dance  —  Mrs.  '  Tom's  ' 
party,  you  know." 

Mrs.  Abernethy  visibly  shuddered. 
"We  have  just  come  to  a  conclusion  that 
may  interest  you,"  she  went  on. 

"If  it  isn't  nice,  please  don't  tell  me,"  ex 
claimed  her  niece.  "I've  made  up  my  mind 
to  have  a  particularly  good  time  to-night." 

"  As  you  know,  we  are  obliged  to  go 
South  next  week  on  account  of  your  un 
cle's  health,"  explained  Mrs.  Abernethy, 
"and  we  think  it  best  that  you  should  re 
main  here.  We  hope  that  we  are  not  un 
wise  in  our  decision." 

"  I  devoutly  hope  not,"  said  the  niece, 
with  a  strange  look  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  am  unwilling  to  do  this,  but  really  I  see 
no  other  way,"  continued  Mrs.  Abernethy. 
"  But—"  began  Ruth. 


222  "THE   DRAGONESS 

"  Of  course  we  cannot  leave  you  alone  in 
the  house." 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  Ruth,  mournfully. 

"And,"  went  on  Mrs.  Abernethy,  "at  the 
excellent  suggestion  of  your  uncle,  I  have 
decided  to  send  for  a  near  relation  of  his,  a 
Tady  whom  I  have  often  desired  to  ask  here, 
who  will  remain  with  you  during  our  ab- 
sense." 

"  Is  she  very  old  ?"  asked  Ruth. 

"  I  believe  about  thirty,"  answered  Mrs. 
Abernethy. 

"About  thirty?"  sighed  her  niece.  "And 
will  you  please  tell  me  her  name?" 

"  Miss  Maria  Kittridge." 

"  Miss  Maria  Kittridge,"  repeated  Ruth, 
slowly. 

"  She  is  a  most  superior  person,"  said  Mrs. 
Abernethy,  "  and  has  always  been  held  in 
the  highest  respect ;  indeed,  in  her  native 
place  she  is  quite  a  power." 

"And  what  is  her  native  place  like?" 
asked  Ruth,  desperately. 

"  It  is  called  Hasbrook  Centre,  and  is  one 
of  those  New  England  villages  which, 
though  small  in  size,  are  rich  in  intelligence 
and  cultivation." 


"THE  DRAGONESS"  223 

"And  has  she  always  lived  there?" 

"Always,"  replied  Mrs.  Abernethy.  "  In 
deed,  though  not  absolutely  obliged  to  do 
so,  I  believe  Maria  has  always  supported 
herself  since  she  was  twenty-one  by  teach 
ing  school.  Very  early  in  life  she  enter 
tained  the  most  serious  views  in  regard  to 
our  responsibilities,  and  when  she  could 
have  been  hardly  older  than  you  now  are, 
through  her  unaided  exertions  she  had  es 
tablished  a  charity-organization  society  in 
Hasbrook,  and  had  caused  the  erection  of  a 
coffee-house  for  the  operatives  in  the  great 
mills." 

"How  does  she  look?" 

"  I  have  no  clear  memory  of  her  personal 
appearance,  as  I  have  not  seen  her  since 
she  was  a  child ;  but,  if  I  remember  rightly, 
she  was  somewhat  small  and  insignificant. 
I  have,  however,  always  watched  her  career, 
as  it  has  been  unfolded  to  me  in  her  moth 
er's  letters,  with  the  greatest  interest  and 
admiration.  Let  me  read  you  something 
she  has  just  written  to  me;"  and  Mrs.  Ab 
ernethy  opened  the  paper  she  had  in  her 
hand.  "  '  With  her  regular  hours  for  teach 
ing  and  the  time  devoted  every  day  to  the 


224  "THE   DRAGONESS" 

furtherance  of  her  charitable  schemes,  you 
might  suppose  Maria  is  sufficiently  em 
ployed,  but  to  one  of  her  temperament  any 
time  unimproved  is  irksome.  She  has  of 
late  been  interesting  herself  in  the  various 
socialistic  questions  of  the  hour,  and  has 
written  a  number  of  articles  for  the  more 
serious  periodicals  that  liave  called  forth 
praise  from  the  most  distinguished  author 
ities.  Of  course,  with  such  a  character  as 
hers,  she  will  always  find  something  to  do, 
wherever  she  may  be — some  grievance  to 
right,  some  error  to  correct,  some  reform  to 
introduce;  but  still,  were  she  in  another 
place,  she  would  be  amid  other  surround 
ings,  and  I  am  sure  that  some  change  would 
do  her  good.'  You  see,"  said  Mrs.  Aber- 
nethy,  suddenly  suspending  her  reading  and 
glancing  at  her  niece,  who  was  thoughtfully 
crumpling  the  terrier's  soft  flat  ears,  "  how 
exceptional  a  person  Miss  Kittridge  really 
is." 

"  Yes,  auntie,"  said  Ruth.  "  But  cannot  I 
have  Betty  Frew  to  stay  with  me  ?" 

"  Oh,  better  have  her,"  interrupted  Ab- 
ernethy,  glancing  at  his  niece  by  marriage. 
"  She  might  profit  too  by  the  society  of  this 


"THE   DRAGONESS"  225 

New  England  Minerva — this  blue-stockinged 
Pallas." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Abernethy,  reluc 
tantly. 

At  their  very  first  interview,  Ruth  and 
Miss  Frew  took  the  situation  into  serious 
consideration. 

"  Do  you  think  she  will  be  so  very  for 
midable?"  asked  Ruth,  after  she  had  im 
parted  to  her  friend  the  facts  gathered  from 
Mrs.  Abernethy. 

"  I  should  think,"  responded  Miss  Frew, 
"  that  she  could  hardly  be  worse.  I  have 
no  doubt  that  she  will,  very  early,  set  about 
improving  our  minds,  and  immediately  un 
dertake  to  show  us  the  frivolity  of  our  lives. 
Now  I,  for  one,  am  perfectly  conscious  of 
my  own  triviality,  but  I  like  it.  I  feel  very 
much  abo.ut  such  high  moral  elevation  as  I 
do  about  Greek  draperies — they  may  be  very 
becoming  in  another,  but  they  are  not  for 
me.  I  am  not  Antigone ;  I  am  article  de 
Paris" 

"  But  what  shall  we  do  ?" 

"Treat  her  kindly  but  firmly;  from  the 
very  outset  let  her  see  that  she  cannot  im- 
15 


226  "THE   DRAGONESS" 

pose  upon  us.  Everything  will  depend  upon 
the  way  we  first  meet  her.  I  should  advise 
extreme  reserve." 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  Ruth,  "it  is  frightful'to 
have  such  a — such  a — "  She  paused. 

"  Dragoness,"  suggested  Miss  Frew. 

"Yes,  that's  it  — '  dragoness,'  "  went  on 
Ruth,  eagerly,  "  always  about.  I  was  really 
cruel  to  get  you  to  come  here." 

"A  friend  in  need,"  said  Miss  Frew.  "I 
will  stand  by  you  to  the  last  sentence  in  the 
last  discussion  in  the  last  number  of  the 
North  American,  and  I  will  not  even  desert 
you  when  I  see  that  Browning  is  imminent 
and  inevitable." 


II 


The  through  express  had  just  arrived,  and 
long  before  the  dusty,  tired-looking  cars  had 
come  to  rest,  the  passengers  began  to  jostle 
each  other  on  the  platform  and  jump  from 
the  moving  train.  Almost  like  an  ungov 
ernable  mob,  the  liberated  travellers  surged 
through  the  station,  while  the  cries  of  the 
porters,  the  rattle  of  passing  trucks,  the  jar 
of  heavy  baggage,  and  the  deafening  and 


"THE   DRAGONESS  227 

pervading  roar  of  the  escaping  steam  added 
to  the  din  and  turbulence. 

"  But  how,"  said  Ruth,  anxiously,  "  shall 
we  ever  know  her?" 

"Eye-glasses,"  answered  Miss  Frew,  "  and 
a  dress  that  would  be  an  excellent  fit  for — 
somebody  else." 

The  throng  in  the  waiting-room  thinned, 
but  still  no  one  resembling  the  ideal  that 
the  watchers  had  formed  of  the  "dragoness" 
appeared. 

"  I  don't  believe  she  has  come,  after  all," 
said  Ruth. 

Almost  as  she  spoke  she  heard  herself  ad 
dressed  in  a  low,  sweet, shy  voice.  "I  think 
perhaps  you  may  be  looking  for  me." 

Ruth  turned  quickly,  and  saw  a  little 
feminine  figure,  clad  in  worn  but  well-fitting 
gray.  She  stared  with  a  surprised  and  curi 
ous  intensity,  while  the  person  upon  whom 
her  eyes  were  fixed  stood  before  her  some 
what  embarrassedly,  and  evidently  not  quite 
sure  what  to  do  next.  In  her  right  arm  she 
carried  a  large  bundle,  which  with  difficulty 
she  changed  to  her  left,  and  then  almost 
timidly  held  out  her  hand. 

"  My  name,"  she  said,  gently,  "  is  Maria 
Kittridge." 


228  "THE   DRAGONESS 

"  The  '  dragoness,'  "  murmured  Miss  Frew 
to  herself ;  but  Ruth,  for  some  reason,  seemed 
unable  to  speak. 

"  I  hope,"  went  on  the  "  dragoness  " — for 
she  it  certainly  was — with  greater  assurance, 
"that  you  have  not  had  to  wait  long  for  me. 
I  think  that  we  are  a  little  late." 

"  No — no,  indeed,"  exclaimed  Ruth,  rather 
brokenly,  realizing  that  she  must  say  some 
thing.  "  But  let  Jackson  take  your  bundle 
and  your  checks." 

The  "  dragoness "  yielded  up  her  parcel 
with  evident  solicitude ;  then  obediently  de 
livered  a  single  brass  token  to  the  waiting 
servant,  and  meekly  followed  her  future 
charges  through  the  bewildered  emigrants, 
and  along  the  sidewalk,  past  the  ravening 
hackmen,  to  the  carriage. 

The  lengthening  winter  day  was  drawing 
to  an  end,  but  the  sun  had  not  yet  set,  and 
still  shone  redly  along  the  westward-running 
streets,  brilliantly  lighting  up  the  great  glass 
windows  of  the  big  shops,  falling  with  warm 
ing  glow  upon  the  crowds  of  work-people 
hastening  along  the  walks,  and  glittering  on 
the  rattling  harness  of  the  impatient  coach- 
horses.  The  slight  dust  that  rose  from  the 


"THE  DRAGONESS  229 

frozen  but  snowless  streets  was  glitteringly 
golden,  and  a  thin  haze,  warmly  violet,  dulled 
the  sharp  lines  of  the  distances.  The  "drag- 
oness  "  looked  through  the  windows  of  the 
carriage,  and  almost  with  delight  seemed  to 
feast  her  eyes  upon  the  city  sights,  to  drink 
in  the  harsh  city  sounds. 

"  I  have  never  been  away  very  much  from 
home,"  she  exclaimed.  "  Only  in  Boston  a 
few  times  a  year  on  business,  and  once  in 
New  York  long  ago." 

She  looked  very  small,  leaning  back 
among  the  cushions,  but  not  at  all  insignifi 
cant.  Indeed,  there  was  an  air  of  determi 
nation,  of  self-reliance,  about  her  that  made 
it  impossible  on  most  occasions  to  overlook 
her.  Her  eyes,  which  were  certainly  unnat 
urally  large — or  perhaps  they  were  made  to 
appear  so  by  her  thick,  curling  eyelashes — 
were  not  turned  from  the  panorama  of  the 
streets;  and  her  lips,  which  were  very  warmly 
red,  remained  slightly  parted,  as  if  in  excite 
ment,  showing  her  white,  small,  regular  teeth. 
However,  if  her  eyes  were  large,  they  were 
not  like  most  large  eyes,  dreamy,  and  per 
haps  a  trifle  dull ;  on  the  contrary,  they  were 
very  bright  and  wide-awake.  And  if  her 


230  "THE   DRAGONESS" 

mouth  was  wide,  it  certainly  was  only  made 
thereby  the  more  expressive. 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  mind  me,"  she  said, 
suddenly,  "  but  I  am  confident  that  I  am 
staring." 

Ruth  had  begun  to  explain  to  the  "drag- 
oness"  that  Mrs.  Abernethy  had  been 
obliged  to  start  "  immediately,"  when  the 
hollow  rumble  of  the  victoria,  that  could  be 
so  distinctly  heard  on  the  smooth  asphalt, 
was  lost  as  the  wheels  ground  on  the  gravel 
of  the  driveway  and  the  carriage  swept  up 
to  the  house.  It  was  one  of  the  latest  and 
best  specimens  of  our  modern  American  ar 
chitecture,  in  which  fantastic  form  is  so  often 
allied  with  dignified  simplicity,  in  which 
studied  rudeness  is  carefully  blended  with 
nice  elaboration,  in  which  extreme  comfort 
ableness  is  not  inconsistent  with  rich  mag 
nificence.  Standing  on  the  broad  flagging 
under  the  porte-cochere,  the  "  dragoness " 
glanced  along  the  western  front,  where  the 
broad  windows  flashed  with  orange  glow  in 
the  light  of  the  low  sun,  with  the  expression 
of  one  who  is  a  little  overawed.  Silently 
she  passed  through  the  doors,  which  swung 
open  so  noiselessly  and  mysteriously  on 


"THE   DRAGONESS"  231 

their  bronze  hinges,  and  entered  the  dim 
hall,  where  the  warm  air  was  heavy  with  the 
perfume  of  invisible  flowers.  She  glanced, 
with  what  really  seemed  almost  reverence, 
at  the  heavy  polished  panelling,  and  the  dull 
harmonious  portieres  that  only  half  hid  the 
luxurious  vistas  beyond.  She  only  seemed 
to  arouse  herself,  to  awake  from  what  ap 
peared  a  pleasant  revery,  as  the  big  clock 
with,  the  "  cathedral  chimes "  struck  half- 
past  five  ;  for,  as  the  sweet  jingle  languished 
away,  she  slightly  trembled,  and  looked  up 
at  Ruth  with  a  half-apologetic,  half-grateful 
smile. 

"  I  cannot  understand  her,"  said  Miss 
Frew,  excitedly.  "  She's  an  enigma — a  per 
fect  sphinx." 

"  Except,"  suggested  Ruth,  "  that  enigmas 
are  stupid  and  that  sphinxes  are  not  at  all 
pretty.  And  she  is  'pretty — awfully  pretty." 

"  There's  no  doubt  about  it,"  assented 
Miss  Frew. 

As  they  passed  along  the  hall  they  saw  a 
small  piece  of  luggage  with  yellow  sides  and 
strange  black  rulings  carried  up  the  stairs. 

"How  fearfully  in  character!"  said  Miss 


232  "THE   DRAGONESS" 

Frew.  And  then  she  thought  of  her  own 
huge  trunks,  covered  with  the  labels  of  the 
steamers,  the  railroads,  the  hotels  of  half  of 
Christendom. 

"But,"  said  Ruth,  suddenly,  as  if  a  clearer 
realization  of  the  terrors  of  the  situation  had 
been  vouchsafed  to  her — "  but  what  shall  we 
do  this  evening?" 

"  Discuss  the  latest  theory  as  to  the  site 
of  Troy,  touch  lightly 'upon  the  probable 
nature  of  the  solar  '  coronae,'  casually  con 
sider  the  advisability  of  taxing  church  prop 
erty,  incidentally  mention  the  realistic  ten 
dencies  of  modern  literature,  and  then  plunge 
with  absorbing  interest  into  an  inquiry  into 
socialism — past,  present,  and  to  come,"  an 
swered  Miss  Frew. 

Ruth  sighed  deeply. 

"  Now  I  don't  believe  you  have  the  least 
idea  of  what  '  nationalism '  is,"  continued 
Miss  Frew,  "  or  could  find  a  word  to  say 
upon  the  tariff  as  a  home  topic ;  while  in 
European  politics  you  do  not  even  possess 
such  essential  and  elemental  knowledge  as 
what  were  the  date  and  nature  of  the  treaty 
of  Kuchuck-Kainardji — the  key  of  the  East 
ern  question." 


"THE   DRAGONESS"  233 

"  No,"  answered  Ruth,  "  I  don't ;  but  I 
know  the  date  of  the  battle  of  Hastings." 

"That,  my  child,"  observed  Miss  Frew, 
"  is  a  drug  in  the  market.  There  never  was 
a  girl  who  didn't  know  that ;  besides,  the 
'  dragoness  '  would  call  it  '  Senlac.'  " 

The  room  to  which  Miss  Kittridge  had 
been  taken  was  charming  with  the  frilled 
and  ruffled  crispiness  of  its  fittings-up,  where 
all  values  of  blue  were  to  be  found,  from  the 
dark  hue  of  the  polished  tiles  to  the  faint 
azure  of  the  shadowed  dressing-table.  The 
"dragoness"  hesitated  a  moment  on  her 
entrance,  and,  only  when  she  found  herself 
alone,  sank  somewhat  stiffly  into  one  of  the 
long,  broad,  abysmal  chairs.  The  smoulder 
ing  fire  fell  in  with  a  gentle  sound,  and  the 
freshly  mounting  flames  crackling  cheerful 
ly,  sent  flickering  lights  frolicking  over  the 
place,  to  be  scattered  and  to  glitter  in  a 
hundred  reflections  and  deflections  as  they 
fell  upon  shining  porcelain  and  gleaming 
metal.  Perhaps  the  "dragoness"  was  weary 
from  her  ride.  At  all  events,  for  some 
reason,  she  sighed  deeply,  and,  with  what 
seemed  almost  relaxation  of  her  whole  be- 


234  "THE   DRAGONESS" 

ing,  settled  herself  more  comfortably  in  the 
yielding  cushions  of  the  long,  low  lounge. 
It  is  unquestionable  that  she  was  lost  in 
meditation  upon  some  very  serious  subject, 
for  she  sat  quite  still  for  a  long  time,  gaz 
ing  curiously  at  the  leaping  flames. 

"We  had  better  send  for  her,"  said  Ruth, 
when  dinner  was  announced  and  the 
"  dragoness  "  had  not  yet  appeared. 

Still  Miss  Kittridge  did  not  come ;  and  it 
was  only  after  Ruth  had  said,  "  I'm  sure 
she  won't  want  to  have  us  wait  for  her," 
and  Miss  Frew  and  herself  were  passing 
through  the  hall,  that  she  appeared,  de 
scending  the  main  stairs  with  great  rapidity, 
but  with  an  evident  effort  not  to  have  her 
heels  click  too  loudly  upon  the  hard,  pol 
ished  wood. 

"  You  see  I  am  always  late,"  she  said, 
checking  herself  in  her  onrush,  and  bringing 
up  before  them. 

She  was  dressed  very  much  as  she  had 
been  on  her  arrival.  The  gown  was  no 
longer  gray ;  it  was  black.  It  was  no  longer 
cloth ;  it  was  silk ;  but  it  bore  unmistak 
able  evidence  that  its  origin  was  the  same 


''THE    DRAGONESS"  235 

as  its  predecessor's.  No  two  creations  of 
Corot  or  of  Redfern  were  ever  more  un 
questionably  from  the  same  hand,  and  Ruth 
and  Miss  Frew  did  not  for  an  instant  hesi 
tate  to  believe  that  the  ringers  that  had 
shaped  both  were  the  white,  soft,  firm 
ringers  of  the  "  dragoness  "  herself.  There 
was  the  same  evident  effort  of  good  taste 
to  assert  itself  in  spite  of  insufficient 
knowledge,  inadequate  skill,  and  unworthy 
material,  that  had  been  manifested  in  the 
other  production.  That  the  "  dragoness  " 
looked  as  pretty  as  she  did  was  certainly 
not  owing  to  the  splendor  or  even  perfect 
suitability  of  her  attire;  indeed,  that  her 
dress  was  at  all  endurable  wras  wholly  owing 
to  the  fact  that  it  was  the  "  dragoness " 
who  happened  to  wear  it.  If,  however,  her 
raiment  was  simple  and  severe,  there  was  a 
great  elaboration  about  her  hair ;  and  had 
not  the  sages  of  antiquity  decided— a  de 
cision  corroborated  by  the  wisdom  of  the 
ages — that  it  is  utterly  impossible  to  explain 
the  action  of  a  pretty  woman,  it  would  be 
unhesitatingly  asserted  that  the  care  she  had 
taken  in  the  arrangement  of  her  locks  had 
made  the  "  dragoness  "  late  for  dinner. 


236  "THE   DRAGONESS" 

Ruth  took  the  head  of  the  table—"  for 
that  time  only,"  she  explained  —  and  then, 
constituting  herself  a  forlorn  hope,  bravely 
attacked  the  position. 

"  I  hope  you  found  everything  you  want 
ed?"  she  said. 

"Oh,  everything!"  answered  the  "  drag- 
oness,"  effusively. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  continued  Ruth,  "that  you 
will  find  but  little  here  that  will  interest 
you.  However,  you  will  have  a  great  deal 
of  time  for  your  writing  and  studying  and — 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  I  suppose  I  might,"  answered,  the  "  drag- 
oness,"  doubtfully ;  "  but  I  don't  think  I 
shall  do  very  much  in  that  way." 

Ruth,  greatly  puzzled,  was  debating  in  her 
own  mind  whether  it  would  be  fitting  to 
ask  the  reason  of  such  unaccountable  absti 
nence,  when  Miss  Frew,  who  had  been  eying 
the  "  dragoness  "  with  that  critical  interest 
with  which  we  are  given  to  understand  the 
earlier  occupants  of  the  roof  are  wont  to 
receive  the  latest  feline  intruder,  suddenly 
broke  out,  in  the  manner  of  one  whose 
curiosity  cannot  longer  remain  unsatisfied: 

"  Can  you  really  read  Greek?" 


"  THE   DRAGONESS  237 

"  Oh,  yes  !"  said  the  "  dragoness,"  looking 
up  and  smiling  a  little ;  "  it  is  really  not  so 
hard.  I  began  when  I  was  quite  young, 
with  a  professor  in  Harvard  College  who 
spends  the  summer  in  Hasbrook." 

"  Shades  of  Heloise  and  Abelard  !"  mur 
mured  Miss  Frew. 

They  questioned  her  about  the  manage 
ment  of  her  school,  her  libraries,  her  charities. 
They  tried  her  on  more  general  subjects. 
Music — she  played  a  little,  and  acknowl 
edged  that  she  sang  in  the  choir;  but  though 
she  knew  that  musical  Italy  had  found  an 
Attila,  she  would  not  have  recognized  a 
Wagnerian  "motif"  if  she  had  met  one. 
Art  —  she  knew  the  histories  of  the  old 
masters,  and  had  read  Ruskin  "  for  the  style." 
Literature — •  They  were  about  to  fall  upon 
literature  as  a  topic  upon  which  she  could 
certainly  be  induced  to  say  something,  when 
suddenly  she  looked  up  pleadingly,and  spoke 
with  more  decision  than  had  hitherto  been 
apparent  in  her  tone. 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you,"  she  said,  "  to 
ask  me  so  many  questions  about  myself,  and 
about  things  that  I  know  do  not  interest 
you,  for  what  can  you  care  whether  we  in- 


238  "  THE   DRAGONESS  " 

troduce  manual  training  into  our  public 
schools,  admit  the  works  of  the  positive 
thinkers  to  the  shelves  of  the  library,  or 
advocate  co-operation  among  the  poor?  I 
wish  you  would  talk  to  me  about  yourselves, 
you  do  so  many  things." 

"  Why,"  said  Ruth,  in  surprise,  "  I  never 
thought  of  myself  in  that  way.  I  only  do 
what  every  one  else  has  done." 

"  Except  myself,"  said  the  "  dragoness," 
with  a  grim  little  smile,  and  almost  as  humili 
ated  an  aspect  as  she  might  be  supposed  to 
wear  if  some  one  had  asked  her  what  the 
digamma  was  and  she  had  not  known. 

"  I  wonder,"  observed  Ruth,  in  her  em 
barrassment,  "  if  there  will  be  any  one  here 
to-night?  I  hope  that  Uncle  Sigwill  come." 

"Who  is  that  ?"  asked  the  "dragoness." 

"  The  dearest  old  imbecile  that  ever  walked 
— or  rather  rode,  for  that's  about  all  Uncle 
Sig  ever  does.  But  you  wouldn't  care  for 
him,  he  isn't  learned  in  the  least,  unless  as 
to  the  pedigree  of  a  debutante  or  a  race 
horse  ;  isn't  clever  at  anything  except  lead 
ing  a  cotillon,  playing  a  hand  at  whist,  or  driv 
ing  tandem." 

"  Really,"  said  the  "  dragoness,"  and  Miss 


"THE   DRAGONESS"  239 

Frew,  closely  as  she  watched  her,  could  not 
detect  whether  the  rising  inflection  indicated 
scorn  or  not.  "  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  any 
one  just  like  that." 

"  He's  always  in  love  with  everybody,  in 
cluding  himself,  and  will  do  all  the  nice 
things  for  you  that  only  a  thoroughly  selfish 
man  would  know  how  to  do." 

"  But  he's  at  the  Dallison  dinner,"  said 
Miss  Frew. 

"  No ;  for  that's  put  off  because — because  " 
— she  hesitated,  for  she  did  not  like  to  say 
that  it  had  been  postponed  because  of  the 
arrival  of  the  "  dragoness  "  and  her  own  in 
ability  to  be  there — "  Mrs.  '  Tom  '  thought 
it  would  be  better  later  in  the  week." 

The  "  dragoness  "  glanced  at  Ruth  inquir 
ingly. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  'Tom,'  "  she  said,  in  reply  to 
the  mute  question,  "  is  the  friend  of  the 
unrighteous  ;  the  leader  of  the  army  of  the 
'  New  Order  of  Things ' ;  the  brightest,  pret 
tiest,  most  extravagant  married  woman  in 
all  Andros  ;  my  greatest  friend,  and  auntie's 
pet  bete  noire'' 

"You  forget  Harold  Redmond,"  suggested 
Miss  Frew,  maliciously. 


240  "  THE   DRAGONESS  " 

"  In  that  case  translate  bete  noire,  black 
sheep/'  answered  Ruth,  calmly. 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  the  "  dragoness,"  with 
what,  if  she  had  been  one  who  would  have 
been  likely  to  have  felt  any  sympathy  with 
such  personages,  could  have  been  thought  a 
tone  of  respectful  consideration,  "  I  should 
like  to  see  them." 

Dinner  ended,  and  as  Ruth  rose  from  the 
table  and  passed  into  the  library  she  was 
brought  face  to  face  with  the  fact  that  there 
was  an  evening  before  her.  Eight,  nine, 
ten,  eleven — one  could  not  reasonably  expect 
to  seek  a  well-earned  rest  before  that  time. 
Three  hours !  As  she  took  up  some  sewing 
— some  "  plain  sewing,"  which  she  had  pre 
pared  "  for  a  first  effect" — she  glanced  de 
spondently  at  Miss  Frew,  who  had  seated 
herself  at  the  piano,  and  had  already  begun 
to  play  the  "Fire  Music"  as  if  she  could 
sympathize  with  the  encircled  and  im 
prisoned  Brunhilde. 

"  And  how,"  said  Sigourney  Fales,  as  he 
entered  the  room,  "do  I  find  my  burdens? 
Your  uncle's  last  words  were  that  I  should 
look  after  you,  and  I  come  to  fulfil  my  trust." 


"THE   DRAGONESS"  241 

"If,"  answered  Ruth,  "we  are  as  burden 
some  to  you  as  we  are  to  ourselves,  I  pity 
you."  Then,  turning  to  the  "  dragoness," 
she  added,  "  Miss  Kittridge,  I  want  to  pre 
sent  to  you  pur  very  dear  friend  Mr.  Fales." 

Ruth  and  Miss  Frew  gazed  at  the  "drag 
oness"  with  unconcealed  amazement.  She 
had  looked  small,  dowdy,  insignificant,  as 
she  sat  in  the  chair  near  the  fire  and  gazed 
helplessly  about  the  strange  room ;  but  now 
her  hand  sought  a  large  scarlet  fan  that  lay 
on  a  table  near  her,  and,  with  this  carefully 
interposed  between  her  face  and  the  blaze, 
she  glanced  slowly  up  at  Sigourney  Fales. 
A  brighter  light  had  come  into  her  eyes,  a 
warmer  flush  was  upon  her  cheeks ;  about 
her  mouth  played  an  enigmatical  smile,  half 
challenging,  half  appealing.  Her  body  ap 
peared  to  stiffen  and  yet  to  relax ;  to 
straighten  and  yet  to  droop,  her  every  mo 
tion  was  more  swift  and  yet  more  assured. 
The  "dragoness"  seemed  to  cry  "Ha!  ha!" 
and  to  scent  the  fray  from  afar. 

"We  have  just  been  talking  of  you,"  she 
said. 

There  was  something  in  her  voice,  some 
new,  vibrant  ring  that  caused  her  charges  to 
16 


242  "  THE   DRAGONESS" 

glance  at  each  other  with  renewed  astonish 
ment.  It  was  hardly  noticeable,  but  there 
was  certainly  an  animation,  an  alertness,  that 
had  not  been  discoverable  in  her  tones  before. 

"  Oh,"  said  Fales,  "  this  is  ungenerous.  We 
are  only  expected  to  leave  our  character  be 
hind  us,  as  you  know.  We  should  not  be 
subjected  to  a  sort  of  anticipatory  vivisec 
tion.  I  hope  you  were  merciful." 

"  I  didn't  say  anything,"  answered  the 
"  dragoness  "  ;  "  and  really  I  am  very  much 
surprised,  for  it  was  something  I  didn't  know 
anything  about." 

"  I  am  relieved,"  said  Fales.  "  Of  course 
when  you  know  something,  then  you  will  say 
nothing.  I  am  safe." 

She  laughed  lightly. 

"  So,"  he  said,  looking  complacently  around, 
"  the  '  dragoness  '  didn't  come,  after  all." 

Ruth  glanced  helplessly  at  Miss  Frew, 
who  in  bewilderment  was  watching  the  un 
conscious  Fales,  and  the  extremely  conscious 
"dragoness." 

Miss  Kittridge  blushed  deeply  —  "She 
must  have  gone  to  bed  at  ten  o'clock  every 
night  of  her  life  to  have  that  complexion  at 
her  age,"  Miss  Frew  had  said — Miss  Kittridge 


"  THE   DRAGONESS  "  243 

blushed  deeply,  as  indeed  she  had  a  way 
of  doing  upon  all  extraordinary  and  some 
ordinary  occasions,  and  spoke  up  brave 
ly,  before  Ruth  succeeded  in  rinding  that 
most  elusive  object  of  search  —  something 
to  say. 

"  Oh,"  she  observed,  pleasantly,  "  I  sup 
pose  I  am  the  '  dragoness* ;  but,  please, 
why  did  I  not  answer  to  your  idea  of  the 
character?" 

Ruth  cast  on  her  a  glance  of  unquestion 
able  thankfulness. 

"Why,  you — you're  too  young,"  stammer 
ed  Fales,  utterly  disconcerted. 

"  What  a  subtle  compliment !"  laughed 
Miss  Kittridge. 

What  Fales  answered  and  what  the  "  drag- 
oness  "  said  that  evening,  are  of  no  particu 
lar  consequence,  or  -would  only  aid  in  a 
slight  degree  in  forming  any  conception  of 
the  remarkable  character  thus  unexpectedly 
introduced  to  Andros,  or  would  tend  only 
slightly  to  promote  an  understanding  of  the 
singular  events  that  took  place  during  Mrs. 
Abernethy's  absence  —  events  over  which 
she  is  to  this  day  puzzled.  Sufficient  it  is 
to  say  that  Sigourney  Fales  and  the  "  drag- 


244  "  THE   DRAGONESS 

oness"  seemed  to  find  inexhaustible  subjects 
for  conversation ;  that  soon  Miss  Frew  re 
turned  unnoticed  to  the  piano,  and  Ruth 
slipped  unperceived  into  the  adjoining  room 
to  finish  a  book  she  had  begun  before 
Christmas.  At  first  neither  of  these  gave 
great  heed  to  the  flight  of  time,  but  as  the 
more  rapid  minute-hand  had  overtaken  and 
passed  once  and  again  his  staid  and  seri 
ous  fellow-wayfarer,  they  gradually  became 
aware  that  they  were  getting  sleepy.  First 
the  onyx-and-gilt  clock  in  the  drawing-room 
struck  the  hour  trippingly;  then  the  quarter 
was  sounded  by  the  old  timepiece  on  the 
landing,  that  had  come  down  from  another 
generation,  when  they  took  account  of  such 
trifles  ;  then  the  half  rang  out  faintly  from 
some  remote  region  above  ;  and  then  again 
came  the  hour. 

"He  is  telling  her  his  very  oldest  story," 
whispered  Ruth  to  Miss  Frew,  as  she  joined 
her  in  the  music-room  ;  "  and  she  is  actually 
laughing  as  though  she  enjoyed  it." 

Another  sixty  minutes  passed,  and  the 
situation  was  becoming  serious. 

"  She  is  begging  him  to  tell  her,"  repeated 
Miss  Frew,  "  how  he  got  out  of  Paris  during 


"  THE   DRAGONESS  245 

the  siege,  and  if  he  once  begins  upon  that 
we  are  lost." 

Another  hour  dragged  on,  and  finally 
Fales,  with  visible  reluctance,  managed  to 
rise. 

"Did  he  ask  her  to  drive  with  him?" 
whispered  Ruth  as  they  wearily  made  their 
way  up-stairs. 

"I  think  so,"  replied  Miss  Frew,  drowsily. 

"  What  did  she  say?" 

"  I  think  she  said  that  she  would." 


Ill 


When  Miss  Frew  and  Ruth  came  down 
the  next  morning  they  found  the  "drag- 
oness "  already  in  the  breakfast-room.  It 
transpired  long  afterwards  that  she  had  arisen 
when  the  day  was  still  so  new  as  not  to  be 
recognizable  by  good  society,  and  had  pa 
tiently  awaited  their  appearance. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  brightly,  "  what  are  you 
going  to  do  this  morning?" 

Before  Ruth  could  answer,  a  servant  an 
nounced  that  Mrs.  Dallison  wished  to  speak 
to  her. 

"  I'll  bring  her  in,"  exclaimed  Ruth. 


246  "  THE   DRAGONESS  " 

"  Do,"  said  the  "  dragoness."  "  I  want  to 
see  her  so  very  much." 

"Are  you  still  alive?"  asked  Mrs.  Dallison 
as  Ruth  met  her  in  the  hall.  "And  are  you 
already  prepared  to  adopt  dress  reform  ? 
Do  you  feel  an  overpowering  desire  to  vote?" 

"  Come,"  answered  Ruth,  mysteriously. 

Mrs.  Dallison,  with  her  light,  rapid  tread, 
crossed  the  threshold  of  the  breakfast-room, 
and  stopped  short.  Certainly  the  "  drag 
oness  "  was  no  gorgon,  but  she  seemed  to 
have  an  astonishingly  petrifying  effect  upon 
those  who  beheld  her. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  "Tom,"  involun 
tarily. 

"  Mrs.  Dallison  wishes  to  see  you,"  said 
Ruth,  rushing  to  the  rescue,  and  looking  at 
the  "  dragoness,"  who  stood  up  nervously 
clasping  and  unclasping  her  hands. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Kittridge,"  said  Mrs.  Dallison, 
recovering  from  her  too  evident  astonish 
ment.  "  I  am  going  to  have  a  little  dinner 
and  dance  at  the  Country  Club  to-night,  and 
I  want  you  all  to  come." 

Now,  if  ever,  was  the  chance  for  the  "drag 
oness"  to  prove  herself  the  true  duenna;  now 
was  the  time  for  her  to  exhibit  that  firmness 


"  THE   DRAGONESS  "  247 

of  character  and  promptness  of  resolution  that 
would  in  future  assure  to  her  unquestioned 
obedience  and  respect.  But  she  did  not 
seem  particularly  determined,  or  at  all  cer 
tain  what  she  would  do.  Indeed,  she  looked 
helplessly  at  Ruth,  and  only  asked,  mildly, 

"  Do  you  think  that  we  could?" 

"  Of  course,"  assured  Ruth,  joyfully ;  while 
in  instantaneous  process  she  thought :  "  Of 
all  things,  the  Country  Club,  Mrs.  '  Tom,' 
and  probably  Harold.  What  would  auntie 
say?"  and  her  heart  glowed  with  sudden 
warmth  for  the  "  dragoness." 

"  We  will  have  the  greatest  pleasure  in 
accepting  your  kind  invitation,"  said  that 
personage,  a  little  primly. 

"  If,"  said  Mrs.  "  Tom,"  as  she  stood  upon 
the  door-step,  whither  Ruth  had  accompanied 
her,  "  the  rural  districts  contain  any  more 
like  that,  I  hope  that  they  will  stay  there. 
I  am  generally  quite  a  self-satisfied  per 
son,  but  a  complexion  such  as  that  is  alone 
enough  to  make  one  perfectly  emerald  with 
envy!"  and,  entering  her  coupe",  she  viciously 
slammed  the  door. 

WThen  Ruth  returned  and  took  her  place  at 
the  table,  she  found  Miss  Kittridge  in  evi- 


248  "  THE   DRAGONESS  " 

dent  distress,  and  clearly  possessed  with  some 
thing  she  found  extremely  difficult'to  say. 

"  I,"  she  began,  then  paused — "  I  want  to 
ask  you  something.  About — you  know — 
what  ought  I  to  wear  to-night?" 

"  Oh,"  exclaimed  Ruth,  "  almost  anything 
will  do." 

"  But,"  said  the  "  dragoness,"  hopelessly, 
"  I  don't  seem  to  have  even  anything.  You 
see  I  never  have  cared  very  much  about — 
my  clothes."  Then  she  added,  in  a  sudden 
burst  of  confidence,  "  I  wish  now  that  I  had." 

"  I  think,"  interrupted  Miss  Frew,  "  that 
you  might,  if  you  wouldn't  mind,  take  some 
thing  of  mine," 

"  Oh!  would  you  let  me?"  cried  the  "drag 
oness,"  with  an  expression  of  the  deepest 
gratitude  in  her  tone.  "  Do  you  think  they 
would  fit?" 

"  We  can  try,"  answered  Miss  Frew. 

Miss  Kittridge  advanced  before  the  great 
mirror,  while  Ruth  and  Miss  Frew  fell  back 
to  get  a  better  view  of  the  result  of  their 
labors. 

"  It  is  simply  perfect,"  said  Ruth,  impres 
sively,  in  irrepressible  admiration. 


"  THE   DRAGONESS  "  249 

The  "dragoness"  looked  up  with  a  short, 
excited  laugh ;  retreated  a  step,  and  then 
gazed  silently  at  the  reflection  in  the  glass. 
For  a  long  time,  motionless,  wordless,  she 
stood  contemplating  the  small,  slight,  modish 
, 'figure  the  mirror  revealed  to  her,  studying  it  as 
one  might  some  interesting  stranger;  then  she 
sighed  deeply,  and,  turning,  made  a  swift,  pos 
itive  gesture  with  her  right  hand,  such  as  one 
makes  when  he  puts  something  from  him. 

"I  feel 'so  strange,"  said  the  "dragoness;" 
"there  doesn't  seem  to  be  so  much  of  me. 
I  suppose  that  is  because  it  fits." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Miss  Frew. 

"But  then,"  continued  the  "dragoness," 
turning  her  head,  and  vainly  trying  to  look 
straight  down  her  back,  "  it  seems  as  if  I  were 
acting  a  part.  I  must  have  a  rehearsal,  or  I 
shall  disgrace  myself." 

"  Come  down-stairs  and  walk  about,"  sug 
gested  Ruth. 

"Now, "said  the  "dragoness,"  as  she  stood 
before  the  drawing-room  door,  "  I  will  now 
imagine  that  I  am  about  to  encounter  for 
the  first  time  an  assemblage  of  my  fellow- 
beings  whom  I  wish  to  impress." 

Drawing  herself  up  to  her  full  height,  and 


250  "THE   DRAGONESS" 

bearing  herself  with  a  dignity  not  unworthy 
of  the  stateliest  presence,  the  "  dragoness  " 
advanced  through  the  doorway,  swept  into  the 
darkened  apartment  beyond,  and  suddenly 
finding  herself  face  to  face  with  a  startled 
young  man,who  had  just  risen  from  a  chair,  re% 
treated  ignominiously  and  in  utter  confusion. 

"  Oh,  Harold !"  exclaimed  Ruth,  hasten 
ing  forward,  "  I  had  no  idea  you  were  here." 

"  I  just  sent  word,"  he  answered,  without 
once  looking  from  the  "  dragoness,"  who, 
blushing  furiously,  and  evidently  on  the 
point  of  flight,  stood  just  within  the  room. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you've  come,"  continued  Ruth. 
"I  want  to  present  you  to  Miss  Kittridge." 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  Redmond,  at  length 
recovering  from  the  hardly  restrained  laugh 
ter  that  had  almost  prevented  speech,  "  that 
I  have  disturbed  you." 

"You  have,"  said  the  "  dragoness,"  sharp 
ly  ;  "  very  seriously.  I  never  felt  more  dis 
turbed  in  all  my  life." 

The  strong  morning  light  streamed  in 
through  the  window,  and,  falling  on  the  yellow 
and  gold  of  the  decorations,  spread  in  a  sallow 
flood  over  all  the  place.  It  was  a  severe  test,  but 
the  "  dragoness  "  stood  it — stood  it  gloriously. 


"THE   DRAGONESS"  251 

"  Now,"  said  Ruth,  "  I  know  that  Miss 
Kittridge  is  going  to  ask  you  to  stay  to 
luncheon." 

"  Are  you  ?"  begged  Redmond,  pleadingly. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  "  dragoness." 

The  pretty  ballroom  of  the  Country  Club 
was  well  rilled,  but  the  crowd  was  not  so 
great  as  to  spoil  the  dancing.  There  was 
not  that  crush  and  swirl  of  humanity  that  is 
found  so  often  in  even  larger  rooms — com 
pacted  masses  in  which  individual  motion 
is  almost  impossible,  and  the  dancers  flow 
along  in  a  human  current.  But  the  floor,  so 
smooth  as  to  reflect  the  lights  in  blurred, 
bright  blotches,  as  a  dancing- floor  should, 
was  well  covered,  and  along  the  walls,  hung 
with  hunting  "prints,"  in  which  the  "pink" 
coats  afforded  brilliant  color,  were  thick 
rows  of  chaperons.  It  was  a  charming 
room  at  any  time,  simple  and  tasteful  in  its 
adornment,  but  now  it  seemed  particularly 
attractive,  as  the  "  buds  "  of  the  winter,  in 
a  state  of  semi-beatitude,  and  the  veterans, 
married  and  unmarried,  of  other  seasons, 
with  a  more  critical  and  contained  enjoy 
ment,  sped  onward  in  the  dance. 


252  "THE   DRAGONESS 

Ruth,  pausing  as  the  last  bars  of  the  last 
waltz  lingered  on  the  air  and  then  gently 
sank  away,  looked  about  anxiously. 

"What  can  have  become  of  her?"  she 
thought.  "  I  haven't  seen  her  for  half  an 
hour." 

Those  who  had  hurried  over  the  floor  in 
the  wild  rout  of  the  dance,  now,  like  rallied 
soldiers,  had  fallen  into  more  regular  order, 
and  Ruth  walked  onward  in  their  ranks. 

"  Where  can  she  be  ?"  she  asked,  with  her 
lips  only,  as  she  passed  Miss  Frew. 

Miss  Frew  shook  her  head. 

"It  is  very  strange," thought  Ruth.  "Can 
it  be  that  she  isn't  having  a  good  time  ?" 

The  slow  onward  march  had  brought  her 
opposite  Mrs. "  Tom,"  who  stood  by  the  door, 
as  radiant  as  a  debutante,  and  as  sagacious  as 
a  dowager. 

"Have  you  seen  the  '  dragoness '  any 
where  ?"  asked  Ruth,  eagerly. 

"The  '  dragoness'?"  answered  Mrs. "  Tom." 
The  name  had  in  some  way  escaped  from 
custody,  and  for  ever  and  aye  as  the  "  drag 
oness  "  Miss  Kittridge  was  to  be  known. 
"  Why,  yes,  I  think  I  saw  her  a  few  moments 
ago." 


"  THE   DRAGONESS  253 

"  I  hope  she  is  enjoying  herself,"  said 
Ruth,  anxiously. 

"  I  rather  thought  she  was,"  replied  Mrs. 
"  Tom,"  with  a  slight  air  of  maliciousness. 
"  I  think  you'll  find  her  somewhere  down 
stairs." 

Ruth  descended  the  steps  that  led  to  the 
floor  below,  followed  by  Sigourney  Fales, 
with  whom  she  had  been  dancing.  From 
the  lower  landing  she  was  able  to  obtain  an 
immediate  and  comprehensive  view  of  the 
large  but  cozy  apartment,  with  its  broad 
fireplace  and  great,  low  divans,  that  formed 
the  main  room  of  the  club-house. 

In  one  corner,  with  all  the  cushions  in 
reach  gathered  for  the  more  comfortable 
support  of  her  small  person,  sat  the  "drag- 
oness,"  leaning  back  languidly,  her  small, 
slippered  feet  peeping  out  from  under 

"  Symphonies  in  needle-work 
Where  dimpled  pearly  shadows  lurk," 

while  Harold  Redmond  leaned  eagerly  over 
her. 

"Oh!"  said  Miss  Kittridge,  in  a  surprised, 
slightly  injured  tone;  "were  you  looking  for 
me?" 


254  "THE  DRAGONESS" 

IV 

And  now  what  follows  is  •  wild,  incom 
prehensible,  inconceivable.  No  one  ever 
exactly  understood  it  all;  no  one  certainly 
ever  attempted  to  give  any  account  of  it. 
It  seemed  as  if  something  had  happened  to 
spur  the  not-lagging  life  of  Andros  to  still 
greater  speed — as  if  some  new  influence 
more  potent  even  than  Mrs.  "Tom"  herself 
had  arisen  and  was  powerfully  at  work.  An 
dros  had  been  "gay"  before;  it  was  giddy 
now. 

Many  marvelled  at  the  change;  Mrs. 
"  Tom,"  as  incapable  of  jealousy  as  of  any 
other  meanness,  was  radiant. 

"  I  cannot  conceive,"  she  admitted  "  what 
has  come  over  the  spirit  of  our  dreams — or 
rather  the  spirit  of  our  ways — for  we  were 
never  before  in  such  a  state  of  wide-awake- 
ness." 

Sigourney  Fales,  who  had  heard  the  re 
mark,  happened  that  night  to  take  Miss 
Kittridge  in  to  dinner. 

"  I  know,"  he  said,  referring  to  Mrs. 
"  Tom's "  speech,  "  what  has  made  the 
change." 


"THE   DRAGONESS"  255 

"What?"  asked  the  "  dragoness,"  inno 
cently. 

"  You,"  he  answered. 

She  looked  directly  at  him,  as  she  had  a 
way  of  doing  with  those  to  whom  she  was 
talking. 

"  What  perfect  nonsense !"  she  said.  "  The 
idea  that  it  would  be  possible  for  one  person 
to  affect  a  whole  society,  and  that  person 
myself !" 

She  paused. 

"If  you  can  change  the  world  for  one," 
he  murmured,  "  why  not  for  all?" 

The  "dragoness"  laughed  merrily. 

It  must  have  been  the  "dragoness."  She 
had  become  the  rage ;  all  men  extolled  her 
fairness,  her  manner,  her  gowns,  and  most 
women  envied  her  such  praise ;  but,  master 
ed  by  her  careless,  fearless,  unconscious  car 
riage,  they  forgot  any  bitterness  they  might 
feel,  and  liked  and  admired  her  too. 

The  "  dragoness "  drove  and  dined  and 
danced.  No  duckling— ugly  or  otherwise, 
and  the  "dragoness"  was  distinctly  "other 
wise" — ever  took  to  the  swim  more  kindly 
than  did  this  strange,  unaccountable  being. 
From  luncheon  she  went  to  "  teas,"  from 


256  "THE   DRAGONESS" 

"  teas "  to  dinners,  and  from  dinners  to 
dances.  Indeed,  there  was  little  to  which 
she  did  not  go — nothing  at  which  she  did 
not  stay,  once  having  gone. 

"  I  hardly  know  you,"  said  Harold  Red 
mond,  as  he  led  with  her  the  Harpendings' 
cotillon. 

"That  is  not  strange,"  she  answered;  "I 
hardly  know  myself." 

She  traced  with  her  foot  a  mysterious 
figure  on  the  white,  duck-covered  floor,  and 
looked  up. 

"Come, "she  said,  impatiently,  "one  more 
turn  before  the  music  stops." 

It  was  very  strange;  she  seemed  to  braathe 
with  stronger,  freer  lung ;  to  revel  as  if  in 
the  expanse  of  a  more  ample  life. 

"  I  must  have  been  frivolous  all  my  life," 
she  confided  to  Ruth,  "  and  never  have 
known  it.  Is  not  that  tragic?"  Then  she 
laughed,  and  added,  "  I  feel  as  if  you  were 
bringing  me  out." 

And  it  did  seem  as  if  the  "  dragoness " 
were  some  open-eyed  debutante,  just  realiz 
ing  the  possibilities  of  a  life  dreamed  in  dull 
school-rooms  over  dreary  exercises — a  longed- 
for  life  where  all  the  world  would  be  as  it 


"THE   DRAGONESS"  257 

was  between  the  pages  of  hidden  novels — 
distracting  and  delicious. 

The  Abernethy  library  is  no  pretence. 
The  large  book-cases  rise  on  three  sides 
from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling,  filled  on  the 
lower  shelves  with  many  "  tall  copies,"  and, 
on  the  upper,  with  lighter  volumes  that  seem 
to  have  risen  naturally  to  the  top.  It  is  a 
large  and  handsome  room,  with  heavy  wood 
work  and  a  massive  fireplace.  Here  and 
there  are  serious-looking  bronzes,  and  in  one 
corner  a  marble  shows  in  ghostly  whiteness. 

On  this  dull  February  day  it  seemed  par 
ticularly  dark,  the  gray  light  of  the  waning 
afternoon  merely  illumining  a  narrow  space 
about  the  windows,  and  leaving  the  shadowed 
depths  of  the  room  in  an  obscurity  broken 
only  by  the  occasional  and  fitful  gleams  of 
the  fire.  If  Mrs.  Abernethy,  or  Ruth,  or 
even  Miss  Frew,  could  have  looked  within 
its  book-lined  walls  at  that  particular  time 
of  the  winter  day,  she  would  have  beheld  a 
scene  that  would  have  surprised  and  per 
plexed  her. 

The  "  dragoness,"  with  her  hands  behind 
her  and  her  back  towards  the  embrasure  of 
17 


258  "THE   DRAGONESS" 

the  deep  window,  stood  like  one  at  bay :  while 
before  her,  in  evident  agitation,  with  pale 
cheeks  and  flashing  eyes,  was  Harold  Red 
mond,  utterly  unconscious  of  the  absurdity 
of  his  own  appearance.  Whether  the  "drag- 
oness"  was  aware  of  it  or  not  was  uncertain, 
for  though  at  times  she  seemed  inclined  to 
laugh  hysterically,  there  were  moments  when 
it  was  evident  she  was  quite  as  near  bursting 
into  tears. 

"  No,  no,  no  !"  said  the  "  dragoness,"  with 
steadily  increasing  emphasis. 

"  But  why  not  ?"  urged  Redmond,  vig 
orously. 

"  Because — because  you  are  crying  for  the 
moon,"  she  said,  "and  that,  you  know,  is 
very  silly." 

"  But  if  I  want  it,  I  want  it,"  said  Harold, 
stoutly. 

"How  absurd  you  are!"  said  the  "drag 
oness."  "Science  will  tell  you  that  the 
moon  is  only  an  old,  cold,  dead  star." 

"  It  is  my  star,"  he  said,  sullenly. 

"You  should  wish  for  some  fair  young 
planet,"  observed  the  "dragoness,"  glancing 
out  of  the  window  into  the  bare,  brown  gar 
den,  where  the  great  spongy  snow-flakes 


"THE   DRAGONESS  259 

melted  as  soon  as  they  fell,  "  that  is  just 
swinging  out  into  space  and  life." 

"  I  love  you,  I  do ;  and  I  cannot  say  or 
think  anything  else,"  said  Harold,  evidently 
reverting  to  some  former  stage  of  the  inter 
view. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  the  "  dragoness,"  with 
a  little  start,  "  it  is  very  wrong  of  you  to 
say  this." 

"  Why  ?" 

"  There  are  a  great  many  whys,"  she  an 
swered,  seriously ;  "  so  very  many."  She 
paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  went  on, 
more  slowly  and  sadly :  "  I  know  that  you 
believe  that  you  feel  what  you  say,  but  how 
long  do  you  believe  you  would  feel  as  you 
do  now?" 

"  Always." 

"  I  think  not,"  went  on  the  "  dragoness," 
and  then  for  a  moment  she  did  not  speak. 
"  I  have  not  treated  what  you  have  said 
with  the  seriousness  that  it  has  deserved — 
with  the  respect  that  I  have  really  felt  for 
it.  I  thought  that  perhaps  we  could  get 
along  the  best  in  that  way.  Harold" — she 
put  out  her  hand,  but  as  Redmond  made  a 
movement  as  if  to  take  it,  she  swiftly  placed  it 


260  "  THE   DRAGONESS  " 

again  behind  her — "do  not  think  that  I  do 
not  prize  what  you  have  said.  I  prize  it  too 
highly,  perhaps."  She  again  paused.  "  No, 
no!  You  must  not  make  me  say  anything, 
for  anything  that  I  would  want  to  say  I 
would  be  sure  to  regret." 

"  But  can't  you — won't  you — 

"  What  I  may  feel  or  think,"  interrupted 
the  "dragoness,"  "you  must  not  ask  me,  and 
I  must  not  ask  myself.  I  must  not,  cannot, 
feel  anything.  I  am  an  old  woman." 

"  You  are  only  six  months  older  than  I 
am,"  urged  Redmond. 

"  At  my  age  that  is  a  very  great  deal," 
said  the  "  dragoness,''  firmly. 

"  But  I  love  you/'  said  Redmond  again, 
who,  with  a  lover's  instinct,  knew  that  in 
that  sentence  all  is  said,  that  in  those  sim 
ple  words  lies  his  strongest  argument. 

"  Yes,  you  do  now,"  responded  the  "  drag 
oness,"  still  more  seriously.  "  But  you  have 
loved  others,  and  you  will  again.  Before  I 
came  here — I  must  tell  you  all  the  'whys' — 
you  know  you  cared  for  Ruth ;  you  had  all 
but  told  her  so." 

"  But  I  had  not  seen  you." 

"  I    am   only  the   fancy  of  the   moment. 


"THE   DRAGONESS"  261 

You  love  her,  and  she  loves  you.  You  are 
hers  by  right  of  youth,  of  beauty,  of  love, 
and  you  shall  not — I  shall  not  let  you — 
make  a  mistake.  If  she  suspected  what  you 
have  told  me,  she  would  be  very  miserable. 
You  must  love  her,  and  you  must  marry 
her." 

"  But—" 

"  You  do  not  think  now  that  you  will  do 
it,  but  you  will ;  and  the  time  will  come  when 
you  will  bless  me  for  what  I  have  done — 
when  you  will  laugh  at  yourself  for  thinking 
that  you  ever  could  have  been  in  love  with 
an  old  woman  like  me.  Yes,  Harold,  that 
time  will  come,  and  you  will  thank  me  for 
saving  you  from  yourself.  No  one  shall  ever 
know  what  you  have  said  to  me ;  not  Ruth, 
for  she  might  imagine  that  this  meant  more 
to  you  than  it  really  does.  You  will  forget 
all  about  it,  and  I — " 

"And  you  ?"  said  Redmond,  as  the  "drag- 
oness  "  paused. 

"Kneel  down,"  she  said;  and  as  Redmond 
sank  on  one  knee  at  her  feet  she  brushed 
back  an  errant  lock  of  his  hair,  and,  bending 
over, kissed  him  on  the  forehead.  "And  I  will 
forget  too,"  she  murmured. 


262  "THE   DRAGONESS" 

V 

Mrs.  Abernethy,  under  the  graceful  arches 
of  the  Ponce  de  Leon,  opened  her  letters,  one 
after  another,  with  that  complete  calm  which 
is  the  product  of  an  easy  conscience,  an  as 
sured  position,  and  the  knowledge  that  the 
most  elaborate  menu  has  held  no  terrors  in 
the  past,  and  is  not  likely  to  do  so  even  in 
the  future. 

"It's  very  singular  that  Ruth  does  not 
write  more  frequently,"  she  said  to  Aber 
nethy,  "  and  more  fully." 

Abernethy  glanced  up  from  his  paper, 
growled  pleasantly,  and  went  on  with  his 
reading. 

"  Good  gracious !"  said  Mrs.  Abernethy, 
suddenly. 

Like  an  experienced  husband,  Abernethy 
had  come  to  read  with  readiness  that  strange 
code  of  signals  known  to  man  and  wife — that 
private  system  of  matrimonial  communica 
tion,  swift  as  telegraphy,  secret  as  a  cipher 
— and  he  looked  up  quickly  as  he  caught  the 
rising  inflection  in  his  wife's  voice. 

"  Hear  what  Mrs.  Everingham  writes  to 
me,"  continued  Mrs.  Abernethy,  excitedly. 


"THE   DRAGONESS"  263 

"  You  know  I  asked  her  to  look  out  a  little 
for  what  was  going  on.  And  now  just  listen 
to  what  she  says  :  '  My  dear  Sarah,'  "  she 
read,  "  '  you  remember  with  what  reluctance 
I  always  speak  of  all  that  concerns  others, 
but  your  parting  injunctions  and  the  interest 
I  take  in  you  and  yours,  in  a  manner,  will  ac 
count  for  what  I  am  about  to  say.  We,  of 
course,  agree  perfectly  in  our  ideas  as  to  cer 
tain  demoralizing  conditions  that  have  lately 
displayed  themselves  in  Andros,  and  as  to 
those  who  are  chiefly  responsible  for  their 
existence.  I.  know  what  you  think  and  feel 
in  regard  to  certain  matters,  and  I  am  sure 
you  will  fully  endorse  my  opinion  as  to  a 
number  of  facts  that  have  come  to  my  no 
tice.  I  hesitate  to  write  it,  but  Miss  Kit- 
tridge,  I  fear,  is  not  a  proper  person  to  be  in 
trusted  with  the  guidance  of  two  girls  in  the 
society  of  Andros.  I  need  only  mention  to 
you  the  fact  that  she  is  seen  almost  daily  in 
the  park  with  Mrs.  "  Tom  " — how  I  hate 
these  odious  and  undignified  appellations 
that  have  now  become  only  too  common  ! — 
and  that  Harold  Redmond  is  a  constant  vis 
itor  at  the  house.  We  all  know  how  unhap 
py  Mrs.  "Tom  "  has  made  her  poor  mother 


264  "THE   DRAGONESS" 

— our  school-girl  friend — and  we  must  accept 
her  for  that  mother's  sake;  but  Harold  Red 
mond,  though  entitled  by  family  and  fortune 
to  the  highest  consideration,  has  forfeited  by 
his  heedlessness  the  consideration  of  all  self- 
respecting  people.  The  latter  part  of  the 
season  has  been  very  gay,  and  the  girls  and 
the  "  dragoness,"  as  she  is  commonly  known 
here,  have  been  everywhere.  Sigourney 
Fales  is  most  attentive  to  her,  and  rumor 
says  that  they  will  soon  become  engaged,  if, 
indeed,  they  are  not  engaged  already.  Re 
port  is  also  equally  busy  with  the  names  of 
your  niece  and  Harold  Redmond.  If  you 
do  not  wish  to  see —  '  Mrs.  Abernethy 
paused.  "  We  must  start  for  the  North  at 
once,"  she  said,  sternly. 

VI 

How  it  came  about  no  one  ever  exactly 
knew ;  the  matter  was  as  much  wrapped  up 
in  mystery  as  the  whole  of  this  strange  af 
fair.  But  before  the  autumn  Ruth's  en 
gagement  to  Harold  Redmond  was  formally 
announced.  That  "love  conquers  all  things" 
is  an  adage  that,  although  not  entitled  to 


"THE   DRAGONESS  265 

rank  perhaps  with  the  brand-new  truths  of 
scientific  investigation,  may  still  find  some 
advocates  and  adherents.  Many  have  be 
lieved  that  it  was  the  steady  persistence  of 
love  that  finally  conquered  Mrs.  Abernethy. 
It  is  certain  that  if  it  was  so,  it  was  no  mean 
victory. 

After  a  brief  betrothal,  the  wedding  took 
place.  And  one  morning  in  late  autumn, 
when  the  yellow  leaves  brushed  lightly 
across  the  carpet  on  which  the  two  walked 
from  the  church  door — beneath  a  shower  of 
rice  and  blessings,  Ruth  and  Harold  Red 
mond  went  out  into  life  together  man  and 
wife. 

"  I  owe  it  all  to  you,"  wrote  Ruth  to  the 
"  dragoness"  from  Algiers,  whither  the  wed 
ding  trip  had  taken  her.  "If  you  had  not 
come,  we  would  not  have  seen  each  other  so 
constantly  and  loved  each  other  so  much. .  . . 
It  was  very  cruel  and  very  kind  of  you  to 
send  that  great  dragon  with  the  jewelled 
eyes  for  my  wedding  present.  Gorgeous  as 
it  is,  and  magnificent  as  it  will  look  in  the 
centre  of  the  table  on  state  occasions,  you 
must  know  that  I  want  to  forget  that  even 


266  "THE   DRAGONESS" 

for  a  moment  I  ever  thought  of  you  other 
than  as  I  do  now — the  dearest,  kindest, 
wisest  being  in  all  the  world.  .  .  .  There  is  no 
one  in  the  universe  like  Harold,  I  am  sure, 
and  I  know  that  I  do  not  deserve  such  bliss 
as  this.  I  am  afraid  that  I  have  been  very 
vain  and  thoughtless  and  selfish.  I  must 
get  you  to  help  me  to  improve  myself — to 
help  me  not  to  waste  my  life  as  I  have  in 
the  past.  .  .  .  You  must  marry  Sigourney 
Fales.  He  loves  you  passionately,  and  I 
know  that  you  like  him  very  much.  I  am 
sure  that  is  what  it  must  come  to  at  last. 
Nothing  could  possibly  be  nicer,  and  I  am 
sure  you  would  be  very,  very  happy."  .  .  . 


IN  MAIDEN  MEDITATION 


IN   MAIDEN   MEDITATION 


"  I  want  a  hero :  an  uncommon  want, 
When  every  year  and  month  sends  forth  a  new  one." 


MISS  ROSMARY  sat  gazing  at  the 
new  Jean  Francois  Millet.  Her  aunt, 
who,  as  all  the  world  knows,  is  the  sole  rela 
tive  of  the  heiress  and  reigning  beauty,  had 
bought  the  celebrated  picture  at  the  last  sale, 
and  only  within  a  day  or  two  had  it  been  sent 
home  and  hung  in  the  gallery  of  the  great 
house,  that  grim  pile  stretching  so  many 
precious  feet  along  the  Avenue,  which  the 
famous  Mr.  Rosmary  had  left  to  his  only 
child. 

Miss  Rosmary's  thoughts  ran  in  mingled 
revery.  She  was  at  half-angry,  half-conten 
tious  odds  with  the  world  just  now,  and  it 
was  not  strange  to  her  that  the  unfortunate 
painter  had  been  left  to  creep  through  a  sad 
life  to  a  dismal  grave.  But,  after  all,  would 
he  have  been  happier  in  another  existence? 


270  IN    MAIDEN    MEDITATION 

Even  if  his  peasants  —  those  sad,  powerful, 
poetic  creatures  —  should  step  from  their 
frames  into  the  ducal  palaces  and  the  man- 
-  sions  of  millionaires  that  now  gave  so  many 
of  them  harborage,  would  they  not  find  all 
about  them  trivial,  unsatisfactory,  provok 
ing  ?  The  existences  of  those  about  them 
might  bring  wonder  to  the  brain  and  a 
shadow  of  fear  to  the  hearts  of  such  simple- 
fibred,  little -gifted,  meagre -lived  folk  as 
the  broad-natured  villager  of  Barbizon  had 
painted;  still,  would  such  lives  not  appear 
to  them  contemptible?  And  then  Miss  Ros- 
mary  tapped  a  petulant  foot  upon  the  pol 
ished  floor.  But  Miss  Rosmary  —  and  she 
quite  understood  herself — was  not  by  any 
means  dissatisfied  with  this  sublunary  globe. 
Nor  was. humanity  as  a  whole,  or  in  im 
agined  instances,  at  all  out  of  the  way  to 
her.  The  trouble  was  with  the  world  which 
is  implied  when  the  word  is  used  in  a  re 
stricted  sense — the  world  which  is,  after  all, 
the  true  world  to  each  of  us ;  the  universe 
of  our  daily  round,  of  our  friends  and  of  our 
enemies,  of  our  loves  and  of  our  hates,  of 
our  hopes  and  of  our  fears,  of  our  deeds 
and  of  our  misdeeds.  Her  life,  it  seemed  to 


IN   MAIDEN    MEDITATION  271 

her,  was  vapid,  void,  although  to  all  others 
it  appeared  to  be  as  full  and  as  finely  ac 
cented  an  existence  as  was  possible  to  a 
young  woman  in  the  very  flush  of  the  rest 
less,  feverish  society  of  this  our  America 
towards  the  last  of  the  hurrying  years  of 
this  rapid -footed  century  —  a  society  she 
thought  shallow,  imitative,  wholly  unorig 
inal  ;  forgetting  that  the  ingenious  ages  that 
have  accomplished  so  much  have  only  been 
able  to  discover  a  very  few  ways  in  which 
people  may  amuse  themselves.  But  Miss 
Rosmary  scarcely  ran  into  such  an  analysis 
as  she  sat  and  looked  at  the  picture  so  filled 
with  the  pathos  of  patient,  common  exist 
ence.  Perhaps  it  had  an  unperceived  appeal 
to  her,  for  the  foot  committed  a  little  stamp 
- — it  might  be,  self-condemnatory,  it  might  be 
self-assertive — and  then  Miss  Rosmary  arose 
and  walked  across  the  room.  She  paused  be 
fore  a  Meissonier.  What  truth  of  drawing, 
what  real  breadth,  what  spirit,  in  the  few 
square  inches  of  the  picture  !  What  a  gentle 
man  of  the  gallant  time!  How  quick  would 
have  been  his  foot  along  the  gay  paths  of 
adventure,  how  ready  the  sword  at  his  side 
if  the  zest  of  hazard  led  to  the  point  of 


272  IN   MAIDEN   MEDITATION 

danger!  Both  pictures  added  to  her  dis 
content  with  all  about  her  ;  with  the  real 
sameness  of  the  things  to  which  her  most 
modern  and  modish  life  confined  her  ;  with 
the  sameness  of  the  people  who  in  the  con 
tentment  of  their  unmeaningness  perplexed 
her.  Was  there  nothing  but  capricious  punc 
tilio  and  artificial  ritual ;  was  there  not  some 
thing  down  in  the  press  of  the  common 
world  where  the  dust  half  hid  the  con 
flict  ;  might  not  lives  be  found  there,  strong, 
inspiring,  effectual  lives,  that  would  justify 
creation  ?  And  in  the  shadowy  and  tenu 
ous  haze  of  her  dissatisfaction  there  was  a 
well-defined  nucleus  of  denser  discontent 
—  discontent  with  things  happening  in  al 
most  regular  recurrence  to  herself.  Wom 
ankind,  of  course,  did  not  please  her  — 
she  had  only  one  friend  who  perfectly 
understood  her  and  whom  she  perfectly 
understood  —  but  mankind,  masculine  man 
kind! 

An  aggressively,  negatively  unobjection 
able  young  man,  without  a  merit  or  a  pros 
pect,  had  offered  her  his  very  gentlemanly- 
looking  hand  and  something  he  called  his 
heart  at  about  two  that  morning.  Really 


IN    MAIDEN   MEDITATION  273 

the  thing  was  getting  to  be  of  too  frequent 
occurrence.  There  were  so  many  of  them, 
so  much  alike,  with  their  pale  faces,  their 
trained  accents,  their  consummate  dress, 
their  routine  lives,  their  routine  topics  — 
their  clubs,  their  races,  their  hunting,  and 
themselves.  Of  course  she  detected  slight 
differences  in  them  —  there  are  differences 
in  the  dress-coated,  wrhite-waistcoated,  full- 
dressed  swallows  that  sit  along  the  telegraph 
wire,  ignorant  of  the  tidings  of  the  world 
flowing  at  their  feet  —  for  they  did  not  all 
talk  to  her  about  the  same  things,  although 
they  did  in  much  the  same  manner  and  in 
much  the  same  tone.  Here,  one  favored  her 
with  languid,  pessimistic  doubts  ;  there,  one 
drawled  complacent  negations,  as  if  such 
things  as  establishing  a  race  in  unhappiness 
or  depopulating  the  heavens  were  easily 
within  the  day's  work  of  either.  Some 
were  ill  of  many  things ;  they  had  caught 
aesthetic  ailments  of  which  they  never  would 
be  cured  unless  beauty  were  out  of  fashion  ; 
they  suffered  from  complicated  sentimental 
afflictions  from  which  their  recovery  was 
only  too  certain.  And  there  were  those  who 
employed  language  in  accounts  of  exploits 
18 


274  IN   MAIDEN   MEDITATION 

across  the  fences  of  neighboring  counties ; 
and  the  annotators  of  the  gossip  of  the 
day — these  perhaps  the  best  worth  hear 
ing  after  all,  she  sometimes  thought,  for 
they  were  always  so  much  more  simple  and 
natural. 

She  knew  that  in  most  girls  there  is  some 
thing  left  over  from  childhood  that  leads 
them  to  take  delight  in  terrifying  them 
selves,  in  imagination,  with  the  exact-coated 
entities  they  see  so  often  and  of  whom 
they  know  so  little,  as  in  younger  years 
they  took  delight  in  frightening  themselves 
with  the  terrors  of  a  jack-in-the-box.  They 
like  to  feel  the  same  thrill  when,  with  un- 
perceived  glance,  they  see  these  wonderful 
beings  gazing  from  out  mysterious  inacces 
sibility  through  a  club  window,  that  they 
experienced  when,  taken  to  some  circus, 
they  saw  the  animals  in  their  cages.  But  in 
the  lives  of  such  as  those  who  surrounded 
her,  Miss  Rosmary  found  no  more  to  excite 
her  imagination  than  she  might  in  the  course 
of  a  letter  sent  through  the  post-office. 
What  chance  was  there,  then,  for  such  as 
he  who  had  so  kindly  taken  his  negative  in 
the  De  Jones's  conservatory  at  2  A.  M.  ? 


IN    MAIDEN   MEDITATION  275 

Does  any  one  suppose  that  a  girl  falls  in 
love  with  a  mere  man  ?  There  is  no  such 
real  difference  between  two  fairly  present 
able  masculine  creatures  as  there  is  between 
either  of  them  and  the  being  a  young  girl's 
imagination  makes  of  one  and  not  of  the 
other,  if  it  is  in  the  one  to  arouse  imagina 
tion  and  give  it  wing. 

Miss  Rosmary  had  lost  or  mislaid  not  a 
little  of  her  temper  as  she  was  driven  home 
the  night  before.  The  wheels  ground  heavily 
on  the  pavement  ;  all  but  one  or  two  of  the 
over-worked  echoes  of  the  Avenue  had  taken 
themselves  off  to  their  tenement  houses ;  just 
past  her  aunt,  half  asleep  and  leaning  her 
head  against  the  side  of  the  carriage,  she 
caught  glimpses  of  the  grouped  and  scat 
tered  stars  in  unobstructed  space.  Was  not 
the  world  wider  than  the  "  precincts  of  a 
billet-doux  "  ?  Were  there  not  men  some 
where — men  who  were  strong  to  do  things, 
and  did  them  ;  men  whose  failures  even 
would  awaken  interest  ;  men  whose  suc 
cesses  would  excite  exultant  pride?  How 
without  such  as  these  would  the  world  have 
advanced  so  far ;  how  would  great  discov 
eries  have  been  made,  and  great  fortunes; 


276  IN   MAIDEN   MEDITATION 

how  brave  deeds  done  and  great  books 
written  ?  Had  she  seen  any  in  the  last 
hours,  any  in  that  atmosphere  heavy  with 
the  odors  of  flowers,  astir  in  flow  and  pulsa 
tion,  as  music  swelled  or  softened,  murmur 
ous  and  eddying,  in  the  undertones  and 
ripples  of  talk  and  laughter — had  she  seen 
any  who  would  take  the  enlisting  shilling 
from  Effort,  Fame's  sergeant  and  orderly? 

And  then  she  laughed  at  herself. 

Of  what  was  she  thinking?  Her  thoughts 
ran  back  to  a  being  of  younger  fancy,  of 
more  unformed  dream — a  Ruy-Blas-Hernani 
sort  of  creature,  daring,  resolute,  sometimes 
arbitrary,  but  always  commanding,  bearing 
down  doubt  with  scant  ceremony,  wooing 
with  humility  shown  only  to  herself,  carry 
ing  her  away  almost  forcefully  if  need  be, 
but  always  with  that  best  gentleness,  the 
gentleness  of  the  strong.  And,  after  all, 
was  her  present  hero  less  spectacular,  less 
dramatic  ?  Or  had  the  drama,  its  laws,  its 
tone,  only  changed?  Was  she  as  absurd 
now  as  then?  She  was  sure  she  was  not. 
There  was  romance  in  the  world  since  there 
were  endurance,  and  effort,  and  the  glad 
spirit  of  adventure  ;  and  where  there  was 


IN   MAIDEN   MEDITATION  277 

romance  there  were  men  and  women  such 
as  those  of  whom  she  dreamed,  for — her 
argument  ran  in  such  circle — without  such 
men  and  women  there  would  be  no  romance. 

"The  morning's  mail,  Miss  Rosmary," 
said  a  servant,  entering. 

She  took  half  a  dozen  letters  from  the  man, 
hastily  looked  them  over,  selected  two  as 
worthy  of  earliest  attention,  and  as  she  open 
ed  the  first  she  hummed,  almost  sang,  three 
lines  from  the  song  of  the  Blind  Beggar  "  in 
a  silken  cloak,"  from  the  old  ballad  : 

"When  first  our  king  his  fame  did  advance, 
And  sought  his  title  in  delicate  France, 
In  many  places  great  perils  past  he — " 

and  then  she  read  : 

"  —  BEACON  STREET,  BOSTON,  MASS. 

"  DEAREST  MILLICENT, — I  know  I  am 
your  only  and  your  half -desperate  friend. 
Yesterday  was  my  birthday  —  twenty-two. 
But  I  think  a  girl's  life  should  be  counted 
double ;  I  always  think  of  summer  as  one 
year,  and  winter  as  another.  Twenty-two  ! 
I  am  forty-four  if  I  am  a  day.  No  one  here 
can  give  me  satisfactory  sympathy,  as  no 


278  IN   MAIDEN   MEDITATION 

one  can  understand  my  troubles.  But  you — 
you  know  me,  and  you  know  how  much  a 
very  modern  girl  has  against  her  in  having 
so  much  for  her.  You  recognize  our  eman 
cipation  ;  you  appreciate  the  embarrassment 
of  our  freedom — our  freedom  without  guid 
ing  precedent.  You  know  that  we  have 
thrust  upon  us  new  knowledge,  new  oppor 
tunities  ;  that  we  must  think,  decide,  act ; 
that  as  well  as  old  duties  to  others,  we  have 
new  duties  —  to  ourselves.  You  know  all 
these  things  —  none  better  than  you  —  and 
you  will  understand  me  when  I  say  that  I 
am  suffering  from  one  of  my  not  unusual  at 
tacks  of  acute  conscientiousness,  aggravated 
this  time  and  with  peculiar  symptoms. 

"  You  have  heard  a  good  deal  about  me. 
I  did  not  like  your  last  letter  because  it  did 
not  tell  me  what ;  and  you  know  that  I 
would  tell  you  everything  if  there  only  could 
be  everything  to  tell.  And — well — veiy  well 
—if  you'll  let  me  do  it  in  my  own  way. 

"  You  know  my  exacting  nature.  You 
know  with  what  antagonism  I  stand  against 
the  world  if  it  does  not  continually  give  me 
its  superlatives,  its  quintessences  ;  and— they 
want  me  to  marry  a  man  who  is  not  a  par- 


IN    MAIDEN    MEDITATION  279 

ticle  of  a  paragon.  Tarn  living  in  what  in 
our  old  Latin  grammar — I  never  studied  an 
English  or  a  French  one,  and  I  am  not  sure 
if  it  is  the  same  in  those — I  think  was  called 
the  first  person  singular  of  the  pluperfect 
subjunctive.  '  I  might,  could,  would,  or 
should  have  loved.'  I  might  have  loved  had 
Providence  seen  fit  to  give  me  a  humble 
spirit,  a  meek,  unquestioning  heart ;  I  could 
have  loved  if  I  had  ever  met  a  master  for 
my  irreverent  nature  ;  I  would  have  loved 
undoubtedly  in  spite  of  all,  if  I  had  been — 
my  own  grandmother,  if  I  had  not  been  filled 
with  imperative  intellectual  needs,  with  pos 
itive  artificial  wants,  trained  to  criticise, 
analyze,  and  dissect  myself  until  I  am  incapa 
ble  of  a  natural,  spontaneous,  blundering,  un 
questioning  impulse  ;  I  should  have  loved, 
yes — I  should  indeed  have  loved,  and  no 
one  knows  it  better  than  myself — I  should 
have  loved  if  I  desired  the  usual  happiness 
of  a  usual  world.  But  I  never  have,  and  I 
fear  I  never  shall.  They  want  me  to  love, 
but  what  can  I  do  if  I  can't  ?  Change  the 
man  and  try  another?  I  have  done  this  at 
times,  and  my  failures  have  been  pitiable. 
My  future  sits  before  me  grinning  like  an 


28o  IN   MAIDEN   MEDITATION 

old  hag.  I  shall  grow  sharper,  more  cynical 
with  the  passing  seasons,  until  I  become  the 
fright  of  the  callow,  and,  with  my  unimpres 
sionable,  knowing  old  heart,  the  terror  of  the 
mature.  But  am  I  to  blame?  You  and  I 
know  that  I  am  not. 

"  It  is  a  vast  theme  that  I  have  just  started 

—  that  I  am  not  my  own  grandmother.     I 
look  at  Copley's  picture  of  her  in  her  youth 

—  did    I    send    you    my    last    photograph? 
There's  a   contrast.     She's  ahead  of  me  in 
prettiness  I  fear ;    but  I  think  of  her  as  I 
saw  her  in  old  age,  and  I  know  that  I  could 
give  her,  were  she  here,  subjects,  questions, 
suggestions,   that    would    frighten    her   into 
wakefulness.     I  cannot  be  satisfied  with  the 
things  that  satisfied  her.     I  may  be  vain  of 
my  invaluable  sex,  but  it    is    plain    to    me 
that,  in  what  we  are,  as  in  our  requirements, 
we  have  advanced  as  far  beyond  our  fore- 
mothers  as  our  masculine  complements  have 
fallen  behind   their   forefathers.     Would  to 
day's  men  fight  for  a  principle?     Some  did 
twenty  and   more  years   ago  ;  but   I    dance 
with  none  such  now.     To  lead  a  cotillon  is 
their  most  desperate  deed  ;  would  they  lead 
a  forlorn  hope,  or  even  a  hope  not  forlorn  ? 


IN   MAIDEN   MEDITATION  281 

"  You  know  that  it  has  for  some  time 
been  the  desire  of  my  amiable  family  to  see 
me  safely  married.  They  attempt  conceal 
ment  with  such  extraordinary  care  that  I 
know  precisely  what  they  try  to  hide,  and  I 
resent  their  uncomplimentary  fear  that  my 
money  exposes  me  to  many  grievous  dan 
gers — dangers  such  as  they  evidently  do  not 
apprehend  from  my  charms.  Every  model, 
every  fairly  eligible  man — and  they  are  not 
particular  about  years  —  has  been  paraded 
before  my  undazzled  eyes.  Until  lately 
such  attacks  upon  my  peace  of  heart  have 
been  desultory,  unsystematic  ;  but  for  the 
last  few  months  the  family  efforts  have  been 
constant,  concentrated,  thoroughly  purpose 
ful.  One  individual  has  been  chosen  out 
of  all  the  world  to  make  me  supremely 
happy,  and  he,  fortunate  or  unfortunate,  is 
on  all  occasions,  natural  or  forced,  thrust 
into  my  society  and  bepraised  beyond  all 
patience.  Of  course  you  think  that  I  must 
detest  him.  But  I  do  not;  I  almost  a  little 
more  than  endure  him.  Our  respective  and 
respected  families  have  long  been  intimate 
— indeed,  in  colonial  times  I  think  there 
was  some  intermarriage  and  that  he  is  a 


282  IN   MAIDEN   MEDITATION 

kind  of  far-away  cousin  of  mine  —  but  I 
really  have  known  but  little  of  him.  He  was 
abroad  with  his  father  during  the  three  years 
before  he  entered  Harvard,  and  then  for  four 
years  I  was  away  myself.  He  returned  only 
a  few  months  ago  from  a  trip  around  the 
world  in  his  yacht.  He  is  perfectly  typical 
and  perfectly  commonplace.  He  leads  a 
life  of  half-busy,  half-idle  leisure  ;  he  drives 
one  of  the  most  accurately  equipped  coaches 
in  the  country ;  he  has  one  of  the  finest  old 
homes  in  the  city  and  one  of  the  finest  new 
houses  in  Newport ;  his  name  hangs  prom 
inent  upon  a  main  branch  of  that  stiffly 
drawn  production,  a  colonial  genealogical 
tree ;  he  is  a  perfect  multitude  of  such 
merits ;  but  to  me  he  possesses  only  one — 
that  he  does  not  seem  to  care  to  please  me, 
for  the  traits  of  the  man  of  my  vision  are 
neither  nautical,  equine,  vehicular,  architect 
ural,  nor  historical. 

"  And  this  is  the  man  that  they  want  me 
to  marry.  Through  life  you  and  I  have 
been  fed,  so  to  speak,  on  the  whitest,  closest- 
winnowed  wheat ;  we  have  read  the  best 
books ;  we  have  heard  the  best  music  ;  we 
have  seen  the  best  pictures;  no  great  statue 


IN    MAIDEN    MEDITATION  283 

gives  the  world  the  charm  subtler  than  all 
color,  the  charm  of  pure  line  and  complete 
form,  that  we  have  not  seen ;  that  polished 
conglomerate  which  you  think  you  so  detest, 
the  curiously  grained  and  veined  thing  they 
call  society,  we  have  known  at  its  best  the 
world  over ;  all  that  we  have  gained  or 
garnered  has  been  attempered  by  a  faith  the 
key-note  of  which  is  vicarious  suffering,  the 
agony  of  divine  sacrifice.  These,  all  these, 
are  the  fruits  of  effort.  And  is  a  woman,  a 
woman  to  whom  a  shock  to  taste  is  severer 
than  physical  pain,  to  fall  in  love,  to  be 
dragged  into  love  of  something  masculine 
without  a  hand's  motion  towards  worthy 
attainment — of  an  idler  who  does  not  earn 
his  place  so  well  as  we  do  onrs?  I  will 
have  no  bankrupt  to  existence,  no  man  who 
does  not  pay  the  world  his  debt,  I — please 
do  not  laugh — I  remember  that  last  autumn 
at  Lenox  you  told  me  that  I  dreamed  of  a 
marvel  —  a  combination  of  Count  d'Orsay, 
Shelley,  and  James  Nasmyth.  Perhaps,  but 
I  see  what  I  see. 

"  It  will  all  come  to  nothing.  He  does 
not  really  care  for  me ;  I,  not  at  all  for  him 
— not  enough  even  to  care  that  he  does  not 


284  IN   MAIDEN   MEDITATION 

care  for  me.  I  would  tell  you,  of  course,  if 
there  were  danger — or  hope  —  or  anything, 
but  there  is  not,  nor  will  there  ever  be. 

"  I  could  write  a  great  deal  about  two  or 
three  new  actual  engagements  here,  but  I 
believe  you  want  to  hear  what  I  want  you 
to  hear — about  myself  from  myself.  I  have 
told  you  but  little,  after  all ;  really  nothing 
you  did  not  know  or  suspect.  If  will  be  a 
long  time,  Millicent,  I  fear — we  are  pottery 
or  such  inductile  and  tenacious  clay — before 
either  of  us  has  more  to  tell  the  other. 
"  Incessantly  yours, 

"  JANET.    . 

"  P.  S. — I  forgot  to  say  I  refused  him  two 
weeks  ago." 

Miss  Rosmary  did  not  lay  the  letter  down  ; 
she  sat  with  eyes  upon  it  as  she  held  it  in 
uplifted  hand. 

Miss  Rosmary,  who  had  never  seen  him, 
could  see  as  plainly  as  if  he  were  visibly 
before  her  the  man  to  whom  they  wished 
to  marry  her  friend.  She  thought  that  she 
knew  the  kind  perfectly — a  useless  creature, 
solicitous  about  his  dress,  but  ignorant  of  a 
manner ;  whose  groom  broke  his  horses  for 


IN   MAIDEN   MEDITATION  285 

him  ;  who  would  not  have  dared  sail  his 
own  yacht  ;  who  was  indifferent  as  to  what 
the  world  thought  of  his  brains,  but  was 
proud  of  the  fame  of  his  millions ;  who 
would  rather  be  a  guest  at  Sandringham 
than  master  of  the  White  House.  What 
could  such  a  man  as  this  Gerald  Massie  — 
the  gossips  had  given  her  the  name — do  ? 
And  what  could  the  others  like  him,  that 
she  knew  so  well,  do  that  would  be  worth 
the  doing?  She  did  not  demand  much; 
she  was  very  reasonable,  she  assured  herself. 
She  only  asked  that  a  man  should  be 
strong,  forceful  ;  that  he  should  have  done 
something,  or  proved  to  her  his  capability 
for  doing  something,  to  awaken  her  respect 
or  excite  her  sympathy.  But  among  those 
she  knew  or  was  likely  to  know  ! 

Miss  Rosmary  opened  her  second  letter  in 
quick  impatience. 

"  ELECTRA,  MONTANA. 

"MY  DEAR  MILLICENT, — Of  course  you 
are  surprised  to  receive  a  letter  from  me 
written  from  this  place ;  but  here  I  am,  and 
here  I  shall  be  detained  for  several  days.  I 
am  here,  and — don't  skip — you  will  learn 
why  in  the  climax  of  my  letter. 


286  IN   MAIDEN    MEDITATION 

"Several  things  not  common  to  a  club  man 
— a  tame  man  of  the  city's  wilderness — have 
happened  to  me  since  I  saw  you  last ;  things 
I  can  tell  you  worth  the  telling,  and  which 
could  best  be  told  in  the  twilight  of  some 
lingering  dinner  dying  in  its  glory,  but  which 
I  will  nevertheless  attempt  to  tell  you  now, 
so  anxious  am  I  that  you  should  know  them, 
and  so  sure  am  I  that  they  will  interest  you. 
If  I  were  a  wise  man  I  would  not  do  it,  for  I 
shall  only  be  giving  you  an  opportunity  to  say 
4 1  told  you  so ;'  but  when  I  am  enthusiastic 
I  am  never  wise,  and  I  am  enthusiastic  now. 

"  I  suppose  that  they  have  been  selling 
violets  for  a  long  time  on  the  corners  of 
Fifth  Avenue,  and  that  even  the  watering- 
carts  are  out.  They  are  having  out  here 
what  they  call  spring ;  it  is  to  me  rather 
the  disturbed  end  of  a  vicious  winter  dying 
slowly,  and  like  a  stage  villain  torn  into 
agonies  by  an  aroused  conscience.  It  has 
been  cold;  great  storms  have  been  frequent; 
the  earth  has  been  deluged,  and  every  stream 
is  swollen. 

"I  know  that  you  never  read  the  news 
papers,  unless  it  is  to  see  that  you  have  been 
at  a  place  where  you  never  thought  of  going, 


IN   MAIDEN   MEDITATION  287 

or  were  engaged  to  a  man  who  had  never 
been  presented  to  you ;  but  even  if  you  did 
read  them,  so  insignificant  a  fact  as  what 
happened  to  an  express  train  in  the  far 
Northwest  carrying  a  hundred  and  thirty- 
nine  passengers  —  among  whom  was  the 
amiable  and  fairly  appreciated  writer  of 
these  lines — would  make  but  small  show  in 
the  crush  and  condensation  of  the  Associ 
ated  Press  despatches,  and  would  not  be 
likely  to  attract  your  attention. 

"  The  railroad  from  Electra  to  Cartonsville 
runs  through  great,  almost  uninhabited  bar 
rens,  and  at  Black's  Ford  crosses  the  river. 
It  is  a  wild,  desolate  country  all  around  ; 
some  convulsion  of  nature  has  torn  out  the 
channel  in  which  the  stream  runs  between 
high,  broken,  and  rocky  banks.  Day  before 
yesterday  the  inhabitants  of  Black's  Fo"rd, 
fifty  in  number  perhaps,  noticed  that  the 
water  was  rising  rapidly.  My  informant,  an 
engineer's  rod-man,  left  there  to  see  that 
the  bridge  is  kept  clear  and  the  signal  light 
at  the  end  properly  shown — my  informant, 
whose  account  of  what  was  said  I  follow 
quite  closely,  tells  me  that  nothing  like  it 
had  ever  been  known  there  before. 


288  IN   MAIDEN   MEDITATION 

"  The  gray  clouds  broke  raggedly  at  sun 
set,  a  fierce,  yellow  light  blazing  through 
every  rift  ;  the  wind  rose,  and  so  prevailed 
that  men  with  difficulty  kept  their  feet ; 
children  were  caught  up  by  any  one  near 
and  carried  home.  When  the  night  shut 
down  but  few  were  gathered  at  the  small 
'store,'  the  only  place  of  the  kind  at  Black's 
Ford  —  my  informant  among  the  rest.  All 
except  one  belonged  to  the  settlement — a 
stranger,  a  young  man  who  had  been  driven 
over  from  a  neighboring  ranch,  and  who 
evidently  awaited  the  arrival  of  a  train.  He 
said  nothing  ;  and  though  curious  eyes  were 
turned  on  him,  even  the  garrulous  store 
keeper  forbore  putting  him  to  the  question. 

"  It  was  not  wholly  dark  outside  ;  there 
was  no  moon,  but  the  stars  shone  brightly, 
and  it  seemed  not  far  away,  between  the 
driven,  goaded  clouds.  The  wind  gathered 
even  more  strength  ;  space  seemed  filled 
with  its  sound.  It  roared  between  the  river 
banks  ;  it  shuddered  through  the  framework 
*of  the  bridge  ;  at  the  corners  of  the  build 
ings  strips  seemed  torn  from  it  upon  their 
edges.  Its  shrill  whistle  was  like  the  sound 
of  ripping  silk ;  along  the  barren  uplands 


IN   MAIDEN   MEDITATION  289 

ran  noises  as  of  knives  whetted  upon  unvvet 
stone. 

"  The  door  of  the  store  was  thrown  sud 
denly  open  and  a  man  shouted  : 

"  '  Come  out  here,  all  of  you  !  We're 
afraid  the  bridge  will  go/ 

"  Even  as  he  stood  in  the  doorway  his 
voice  could  hardly  be  heard  above  the  up 
roar  outside. 

"  All  sprang  to  their  feet ;  the  greater 
number  hastened  to  the  not  distant  river- 
bank.  The  black  outlines  of  the  great 
bridge  stood,  here,  clearly  defined  against 
the  sky ;  there,  lost  against  the  massed, 
hurrying  clouds. 

"  '  She'll  go,'  said  one,  '  sure.' 

'"She  must,'  assented  another.  'She 
can't  stand  it  long.' 

"  '  See,  see  !'  cried  a  third,  '  how  the  wa 
ter  climbs  up  the  'butments.' 

"As  the  mantle  of  the  Tishbite  divided 
the  waters,  so  the  sheeted  wind  seemed  to 
drive  before  it  flood  upon  flood. 

"  Suddenly  the  storekeeper  spoke. 

"  '  When's  that  train  due  ?'  he  shouted. 

"  '  In  an  hour,'  was  the   answer  from  all 
sides. 
19 


290  IN    MAIDEN   MEDITATION 

"  '  If  it  don't  hold  up  for  that  time  the 
train's  gone,'  said  the  storekeeper,  solemnly. 

"Almost  as  he  spoke,  with  such  tremor  as 
may  come  before  dissolution,  with  groan 
ing  outcry,  with  the  sharp  crack  of  iron 
torn  apart,  with  gathering  roar,  the  massive 
structure  bent,  broke,  and  fell  with  slow, 
final  crash  into  the  raging  river.  From  the 
abutments  hung  iron  rods  torn  from  their 
fastenings,  twisted,  contorted,  threatening  as 
vipers  knit  around  some  fateful  head. 

"  '  The  train's  lost !'  said  some  one  above 
the  low  murmur  that  was  almost  a  wail. 

"  None  dissented  ;  none  spoke.  The  river 
seemed  roaring,  growling  for  its  prey ;  the 
rocks  on  the  bank  were  thrust  out  like  fangs 
through  the  foam. 

"  '  Is  there  no  way  to  give  warning  ?' 
asked  the  stranger,  speaking  for  the  first 
time. 

" '  How'd  you  do  it?'  demanded  the  store 
keeper,  in  the  tension  of  the  moment  turning 
angrily  upon  him. 

" '  Is  there  no  other  way  of  getting 
across?'  asked  the  other,  quietly. 

"  '  None.' 

"  '  No  signal  to  be  given  ?' 


IN   MAIDEN   MEDITATION  291 

"  '  No,'  said  the  station-master.  '  They'll 
drive  right  into  the  river  unless  there's  a 
light  shown  half  a  mile  up  the  track.' 

"  '  Who's  to  do  it  ?'  asked  the  stranger. 

"  '  It  can't  be  done.' 

"  '  Can't  we  swim  the  river?' 

"The  station-master  glanced  down  the 
bank  and  laughed  in  half-derision. 

"  '  Do  you  think  any  man  could  get 
through  that?'  he  asked,  sneeringly. 

"  '  A  man  might  try.' 

" '  Who  ?' 

" '  I,  for  one,'  answered  the  stranger. 

" '  It's  death,'  said  some  one. 

"'  Bring  me  that  light  yonder,'  continued 
the  stranger  in  a  quick,  commanding  tone, 
'  and  hang  another  in  its  place.' 

"  No  one  stirred. 

" '  Do  you  hear  me  ?'  he  shouted,  as  he 
threw  off  his  coat.  '  Bring  me  that  light.' 

"  After  hesitating  a  moment,  suspicious  of 
being  sent  on  a  fool's  errand,  so  little  likely 
did  it  seem  that  any  one  would  have  such 
hardihood,  one  of  the  men  ran  towards  the 
post  where  shone  a  small  lamp  with  a  red 
light. 

"  The  stranger  tightened   the  belt  about 


292  IN   MAIDEN   MEDITATION 

his  waist,  walked  to  the  water's  edge,  and 
stood  waiting  for  the  lamp. 

"  '  Give  me  matches,'  he  said. 

"  Some  were  handed  to  him. 

"  '  And  an  oil-skin  coat.' 

"  Several  were  offered ;  he  grasped  the 
nearest,  and  with  quick,  strong  hand  cut 
from  it  two  pieces.  He  wrapped  one  hastily 
around  the  matches  and  thrust  the  parcel 
into  the  bosom  of  his  shirt ;  the  other  he 
wound  around  the  lamp  after  blowing  out 
the  light. 

"  He  stood  for  an  instant  gazing  at  the 
stream;  then  suddenly  he  cast  off  his- shoes, 
stepped  into  the  river,  struck  out,  and  in  a 
moment  was  lost  to  sight  in  the  darkness. 

'"By — !'  but  the  storekeeper  suppressed 
his  oath — 'when  souls  are  saved  he'll  be  sure 
of  his  salvation,  I  don't  care  what  else  he's 
done  or  hasn't.' 

"  As  if  the  unuttercd  but  understood  oath 
gave  solemnity  to  what  was  said,  one  of  the 
men,  in  low,  determined  voice,  cried  'Amen.'  " 

Miss  Rosmary's  hand  caught  the  letter 
tighter ;  her  eyes  shone  with  excited  light. 
In  a  moment  she  read  on: 


IN   MAIDEN   MEDITATION  293 

"  As  a  crowd  lining  a  race-track  when  the 
horses  sweep  to  the  winning  post,  so  all 
stood  rigid  and  silent  along  the  shore,  with 
craning  necks  and  eager  eyes ;  stood  and 
saw  nothing,  heard  nothing  but  the  wind 
and  the  rushing  water ;  stood  so  lost  in 
strained  attention  that  time  was  really  the 
nothing  that  it  is. 

"  '  He's  stopped  her  or  we'd  have  seen  her 
head-light  before  this/  said  one. 

"  '  She's  often  late,'  answered  another. 

"  None  disputed  this. 

"  '  Perhaps  we  couldn't  see  her  lights  over 
here  this  weather,'  said  the  first  as  the  rain 
began  to  fall  in  torrents. 

" '  I  tell  you  we  could,'  said  the  store 
keeper.  '  A  man's  a  fool  who'd  think  he 
couldn't.' 

"  None  spoke ;  all  knew  that  the  angry 
tone  of  the  last  speaker  was  a  protest  against 
losing  hope.  They  all  stood  now  grouped 
together,  grouped  as  are  frightened  cattle. 
But  they  were  gathered  in  more  than  fear; 
they  stood  in  awe,  in  silence,  as  men  stand 
around  a  closing  grave. 

"  Our  train   came  to  a  stop  with  a  sud- 


294  IN  MAIDEN   MEDITATION 

denness  that  brought  every  passenger  to  his 
feet.  I  looked  hastily  out  of  the  window. 
The  darkness  was  piled  against  the  pane 
like  black  marble  in  a  quarry ;  the  wind 
shrieked  around  the  train  as  a  maniac  might, 
finding  some  strange  obstruction  in  the  path 
of  his  escape.  I  hastened  forward  with  the 
others.  I  leaned  from  the  platform  of  the 
first  car  and  looked  and  listened.  Just 
in  front  of  the  train  I  could  see  moving 
lights. 

" '  He  has  fainted,'  were  the  first  words  I 
made  ont. 

"  '  What  has  happened  ?'  I  asked  the  con 
ductor,  who  had  been  forward,  as  he  came 
rapidly  along. 

"  '  The  bridge  below's  been  carried  away, 
and  if  that  young  man-  hadn't  come  from 
God  knows  where  with  his  light,  we'd  all 
have  been  in  the  river  with  the  train  on  top 
of  us.  Is  any  one  of  you  a  doctor?' 

"  You  know  about  my  year  or  two  at 
Bellevue  ;  perhaps  I  could  aid,  and  I  has 
tened  down  the  track.  They  had  lifted  him 
off  the  rails,  and  lamps  were  held  over  him 
as  he  lay.  His  eyes  were  closed  ;  he  was 
senseless,  but  his  jaws  were  set  in  relentless 


IN   MAIDEN   MEDITATION  295 

resolve.  We  carried  him  to  the  forward 
car.  The  train  was  backed  seven  miles  to 
this  place,  and  here  I  am. 

"  The  young  man  is  still  too  weak  to 
give  any  account  of  himself.  I  am  acting 
as  his  nurse,  and  am  writing  in  the  room 
next  to  the  one  in  which  he  lies.  I  cer 
tainly  shall  not  leave  my  patient  for  a  day 
or  two.  • 

»"  And  now  you  will  remember  what  you 
have  always  said  ;  you  will  remember  our 
many  contentions  ;  remember  your  repeated 
assertions  that  one  must  go  far  to  find  a 
man  among  men — that  among  none  whom 
you  saw  could  a  man  be  found  :  and  you 
will  remember  too  with  what  serene  con 
fidence  I  have  repeated  to  you  that  the 
Great  Duke  said,  '  The  dandies  fought  well 
at  Waterloo.' 

"  I  will  let  you  know  immediately  what  I 
am  going  to  do  when  I  have  finally  decided. 
I  do  not  like  to  leave  this  young  man.  He 
has  done  a  fine  thing  and  I  am  going  to 
see  him  through.  I  am  old  enough  to  know 
better,  but  I  don't. 

"  Sincerely  your  friend  and  guardian, 
"  JAMES  GILCHRIST." 


296  IN   MAIDEN   MEDITATION 

Miss  Rosmary  dropped  the  letter  and  sat 
silent.  She  looked  about  her.  What  pre 
tences  the  pictures  were  —  what  mere  pre 
tences  !  and  the  world  in  which  she  lived  ! 
Miss  Rosmary  started  to  her  feet  with 
flushed  cheeks.  Why  could  she  not  know 
men  like  this  ?  Poor  fellow,  she  thought, 
if  she  could  only  see  him  ;  could  even  help 
to  care  for  him.  How  stupidly  the  letter 
was  written  !  Nothing  at  all — 

"  A  telegram,  Miss  Rosmary,"  said  the 
servant,  entering  hastily. 

Miss  Rosmary  tore  open  the  yellow  en 
velope.  The  despatch  was  from  Chicago, 
and  ran : 

"  Of  course  you  have  received  my  letter 
written  at  Electra.  Our  rescuer  turns  out 
to  be  Gerald  Massie  of  Boston,  visiting  a 
friend's  ranch.  He  is  entirely  recovered, 
and  comes  with  me.  I  have  taken  the  lib 
erty  of  asking  him  up  the  river,  where  I 
suppose  your  aunt  and  yourself  soon  go. 
Wonderful,  is  it  not  ? 

"JAMES   GlLCHRIST." 

THE   END. 


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